


Down the Rabbit Hole

by ace_assin9



Category: The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Angst, Closure, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Good Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern | Sebastian Verlac, Implied Violence, Jonathan Morgenstern is bisexual and I will die on this hill, M/M, Past Child Abuse, References to Depression, Sibling Bonding, Simon's a nerd and I would die for him, and he's an absolute dickwad, because I'm ace and cannot write smut, because it's Jonathan and Valentine is gonna be mentioned, fucking hell universe, just let Jonathan be happy, nonlinear story, redemption arc, resurrection AU, so. much. swearing., there is so much swearing, there's no explicit smut, they all deserve to say fuck after everything they've been through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:33:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 71,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28597773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ace_assin9/pseuds/ace_assin9
Summary: Clary stands there, hands still in front of her as if she were still holding that damn plate, like an absolute idiot. She doesn’t know where to start. Doesn’t know how to get the words out. She’s thought them, hundreds of times by now, and it still doesn’t feel real.Somehow, she manages to say, “My brother is alive.”The world doesn’t tilt on its axis. The ground doesn’t fall out from beneath her feet, doesn’t dissolve into quicksand, doesn’t vanish.Or: the one where Clary finally gets the brother she wanted and Jonathan learned to live for himself
Relationships: Clary Fray & Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern, Clary Fray/Jace Wayland, Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern/Original Male Character
Comments: 18
Kudos: 23





	1. The Fact of His Pulse

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! First fic on AO3, and I'm super excited. I'll be updating every Wednesday, since everything has been written and formatted. 
> 
> This basically has been living rent-free in my mind for about five years and I figured I should actually write it, so here ya go. There really aren't enough long and complete fics with Good!Jonathan, and there certainly isn't enough fluff. I hope y'all enjoy, and please feel free to come yell at me about it (I'm aceass1n on Tumblr!)
> 
> I haven't read the books in literal years, so if they're super out of character...that's why lol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: violence
> 
> Chapter title from little beast by Richard Siken
> 
> SONGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:  
> Mirror, Mirror—Juniper Vale  
> So Sad, So Sad—Varsity  
> Stealing Cars—James Bay

**November 8, 2010**

Mid-afternoon, Clary thinks, is the best time to paint. There’s something beautiful about sunlight glinting through skyscrapers, gold reflecting off the windows and bounding off russet leaves. She’d propped the Institute windows open, letting the white noise from the street fade into the background. 

Technically, she’s supposed to be training right now. Technically, she’s supposed to be helping Jace with paperwork. Technically, she’s supposed to be doing a lot of things.

She paints instead. Tries to lose herself in brushstrokes and colour. 

Instead, her mind circles back to the murders. 

There have been sixteen so far, as far as the Clave can tell. All in Europe, but no specific country or city. All middle aged or older. They’re all on high alert with it—increased patrols, increased communication with Downworlders, increased communication between the Clave and local Institutes. Recently, she’d found herself almost wishing for the boredom from before Shanghai back. At least then, no one was being murdered.

Clary sighs, setting the brush down. Buries her head in one hand. She doesn’t regret agreeing to run the Institute with Jace; sure, it’s a lot of bureaucracy, but they already knew it would be. But the _helplessness_. She hadn’t realized how little she’d be able to do for people who needed it. No one can do anything but sit and wait for the next bodies to drop. It’s ridiculous. It’s impossible. It’s—

The Institute doorbell cuts through her indignation. 

She barely remembers to set down her brush before racing downstairs. No one uses the doorbell. Lily just shows up in the Sanctuary and calls Alec. Maia walks right in the front door. The rest of them come and go as they please. 

Alec’s already opening the door when she reaches the foyer. It’s a ridiculous thing, really, ten feet of carved stone and iron bolts and wood. The screeching of the hinges echoes around the room like the shrieking of bats. 

A woman stands on the threshold, twisted horns peeking out from beneath bright blue hair. Warlock, then. She’s unfamiliar, but New York is a big place. Clary meets new Downworlders all the time. 

Her eyes latch onto Clary and sharpen. 

“Thank the _gods_ you’re here.” She invites herself in, shoving the doors shut with enough force that Clary thinks the floor _shakes_. The warlock shakes her arms out as if trying to get dry, even though Clary can’t see any water on her. She has an accent, some kind of British one. “I’ve been looking _everywhere_ —honestly, why they recommended the bloody _club_ of all places—”

“I’m sorry, _who_ are you?” Clary interrupts, getting more confused by the minute. Downworlders usually come looking for Alec. She chances a glance at him but he looks equally bemused. 

“Oh, _that’s_ what I forgot to do,” the warlock mutters. She straightens. “Rhiannon Locke.” Flashes a cocksure grin and holds out a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Clary takes it slowly, no less confused than she was a minute ago. Rhiannon gives her hand a firm shake before letting go and turning to jog up the steps. 

“Best to get everyone in one place, then!” she calls over her shoulder. “Don’t wanna explain this twice.”

“Explain _what_?” Clary starts after her. 

_Sure_ , she thinks tiredly. _First murders, now a strange warlock I’ve never met. This might as well happen._ You would think she’d be used to strange things happening to her by now. 

“Do you know her?” she asks Alec. 

He shakes his head. “Magnus might. He knows everyone.”

Helpful. 

By the time they arrive in the library, Rhiannon’s hopped onto a table to hold court. Jace gives her a look that says, _what the fuck?_ Clary wishes she could tell him. Simon’s staring at Rhiannon like she has three heads; Isabelle’s sizing her up. 

Rhiannon looks over as Clary and Alec walk in. “Great, we’re all in one place. Now.” She pauses, something like uncertainty flitting across her face for the first time. The moment hangs suspended, everyone too confused and too surprised to contribute any noise of their own. Clary watches as she visibly decides to plow on. 

She takes a deep breath. “Before I continue, I need everyone to promise not to panic.”

“What the hell?” Simon demands, sounding a slight bit hysterical. Clary can’t blame him. They _just_ got back from dealing with a crazy Prince of Hell. You would think the universe owed them some sort of break, but no. Crazy things happen in landslides; a single rock falls, and before you know it, you’re crushed under five tonnes of rubble. 

Rhiannon glares. “ _Promise._ ” 

After a moment, Jace relents, stepping forwards to break the tension. “Alright, alright, fine, we promise, who are you and what the _hell_ is going on?”

The warlock studies him with narrowed eyes, as if weighing his honesty. Apparently, he passes the test, because she sighs, settling cross-legged onto the table. 

“Jonathan Morgenstern is missing.”

And all hell breaks loose. 

**April 3, 2008**

Jonathan Morgenstern opened his eyes to sunlight and pain. 

The sunlight was, by far, the most surprising thing about the situation. Pain, he could live with. He _had_ spent seventeen years with demon blood scorching through his veins. But the sunlight...well. 

Hell didn’t have sunlight. 

The room cleared, like a camera lens focusing. He blinked up at a high-beamed ceiling, concrete columns rising like towers in his peripheral vision. The sunlight was coming from rectangular windows set high in the walls, casting the depressing grey of his surroundings in soft light. 

Harsh whispers cut through the quiet. _“—der Falsche, wo sind wir falsch gelaufen?”_ Something thudded to the ground. _“Scheiße, sie werden sauer sein.”_

Jonathan’s brain kicked into gear, picking apart the words instinctively. German. Yes. He knew this language. Right?

 _Wrong one,_ he thought, mind working like an unoiled machine as he tried to translate the words. _Where did we go wrong?_

He didn’t move; instead, he let his eyes drift shut again. Let them think he was asleep. Or even better, dead. But against his best intentions, his eyes drifted open again, taking in the sunlight with a quiet sort of wonder. There was no demon blood—he’d feel it—and the pain was concentrated to his shoulder. All in all, not bad. And the _sunlight._

“We can’t just kill him again!” A different voice, sounding vaguely panicked, and still very much in German. “Fuck, okay, wait, maybe we can— _here_ , this, maybe we can use his blood—”

Now _that_ Jonathan didn’t like the sound of. 

He had two working arms ( _I think_ ) and two working legs ( _I hope_ ) but realistically, he hadn’t fought in—in—

Fuck. He couldn’t remember. He didn’t know how long he’d been in Hell, didn’t know how long since Edom, since he’d been in his own body (though it had never really been _his_ body)—

“He’s breathing.”

_Fuck me to Hell and Heaven and every bloody thing in between._

Hands seized him, hauled him upright right as he closed his eyes hastily. Probably two people, then; the two he’d heard speaking. _I can take two people. I think._ He just needed to lift his arms. 

Any time now. 

Someone pried his eyelids apart. A man crouched in front of him, dark haired and dark eyed. He studied Jonathan thoughtfully. 

“Green eyes,” he said, sounding vaguely surprised. “Isn’t he supposed to have black eyes?”

“Who cares?” Footsteps as the woman stepped closer. The man let Jonathan’s eyes shut. “Just get him up, we have to move him before Freya comes back.” 

“Freya will figure it out anyways—”

“Get. Him. Up.”

Someone—probably the man—picked him up like a rag doll and slung him over a shoulder. Jonathan forced himself not to tense. They couldn’t know he was alive. He didn’t even know what they _wanted_ with him. He’d been dead. They’d brought him back (he assumed), so he doubted they were going to kill him again. 

_Wrong one,_ they’d said. Wrong what? Wrong person? Wrong version of him? 

His diaphragm was pressed into the man’s shoulder; every step knocked the breath out of him. Quiet conversation floated over his head. He caught snippets of it—something about a spell, something about a ritual, something about blood. Opening his eyes to slits revealed lush, ornate carpet and wood-wainscot walls. Legs moved in and out of his field of vision as they moved past others. _Three, seven, ten_ —his heart sunk. Far too many to fight. Maybe he could sneak out?

After 491 steps (yes, he counted), they stopped. Hinges squeaked. 5 steps. The man tossed him onto a hard surface with a grunt. 

“He’s heavier than he looks,” the man grumbled. Jonathan smothered a smirk; at least he’d managed to cause them _some _discomfort.__

__“Leave him.” Footsteps. “We have work to do.”_ _

__And the door closed, leaving Jonathan alone once again._ _

__He waited until he was sure he was alone before he opened his eyes. Sat up. It was harder than he’d expected; his arms shook with the effort to push himself upright. He almost laughed at his own foolishness. Of course he wouldn’t be able to fight anyone right now. He didn’t know much about being resurrected, but he remembered floating in absolute nothing for months last time, remembered the disconnect between his mind and his body at first. The way it had felt like trying to operate a puppet._ _

__The room was...well. Calling it a _room_ was generous. More of a storage cupboard. He’d been dropped onto a cot, a thin mattress laid on the metal frame. A desk in the corner was half-buried by papers and storage bins. The ceiling had the same warehouse look to it, high and beamed. Unlike the hallways, this room had no carpet. _ _

__He clambered to his feet, holding himself up with a hand against the wall. His legs shook. _Pathetic,_ Valentine’s voice whispered, disappointed and so, so real that Jonathan almost fell over checking that Valentine wasn’t actually in the room with him. _Absolutely pathetic._ A strong gust of wind could knock him over. _Fucking hell.__ _

__After far too much time, he made it to the door. Just that small distance (five steps, he remembered) left him exhausted and winded. What would they do if he collapsed right here? Put him back on the cot? Take him back to the room he’d woken up in? Kill him?_ _

__Jonathan set a shaking hand on the doorknob. Jiggled it._ _

__Locked._ _

__He let out a breathless laugh, leaning his forehead against the door. Of course it was locked. Not that he’d manage to get out even if it wasn’t. The wall was the only reason he was still standing._ _

__He turned around, leaning his back against the door and taking in the room with mounting dread. There were four things that he knew for certain:_ _

__One—he was alive._ _

__Two—he wasn’t supposed to be._ _

__Three—those people wanted his blood._ _

__Four—he was stuck here. Indefinitely. With people who wanted to bleed him dry._ _

__Jonathan sank to the floor, burying his head in his hands. He tried to will his breathing into slowing. _You can deal with this,_ he told himself. _You’ve been to_ Hell, _for fuck’s sake. You can deal with some homicidal fools._ He just needed to—Raziel, what did he need? Strength. Weapons. Knowledge. He needed to know what they wanted, needed to know where he was, needed to know the layout and how to get out and—_ _

__And that meant cooperating._ _

__He lifted his head, staring blankly at the wall across from him. Cooperate. Let them think he was weak. And when he had enough of his strength back, get the fuck out of here._ _

__

__**November 8, 2010 ******__

****

__“My brother is _alive_?!” Clary demands. The others look equally shell-shocked. Rhiannon is still talking a million miles an hour, something about tracking people down and Jonathan’s tragic past making a comeback and a hundred other things, but Clary can’t get past the first thing. _ _

****

__Jonathan Morgenstern is alive._ _

****

___Alive._ _ _

****

__She doesn’t know if she should be relieved or horrified. Bile rises, and she takes a deep breath. Swallows hard. _Keep it together, Fairchild._ _ _

****

__The warlock flaps her hands dismissively. “Yes, yes, keep _up,_ would you? Jonathan’s missing and we’ve been trying to find him for weeks, and we haven’t gotten anywhere so we thought, fuck it, we’re asking the Shadowhunters—” _ _

****

__“Who’s _we_?” _ _

****

__“That’s not important, the point is he’s gone and I think they got him.”_ _

****

__Silence greets her words. Clary stares, mind buzzing with white noise. The floor lists dangerously beneath her feet. Beside her, Alec sits down heavily, half falling into the chair, eyes wide. The warlock’s chest rises and falls rapidly, as she’d run a marathon just to tell them._ _

****

__“So—just let me recap this—Jonathan Morgenstern is alive, he’s been alive for two years, you’re friends with him, the Circle is still up and running and you think they abducted him?” Jace ticks each thing off on his fingers, raising an eyebrow at the warlock._ _

****

___Well, I wanted excitement,_ Clary thinks drily. What she wouldn’t give for a little less excitement now. She’s probably in shock. She should probably be a lot more concerned about her brother—who she stabbed in the heart three years ago—who burned down Institutes and killed her friend and tried to—she closes her eyes before her thoughts can go any farther. _ _

****

__Yes. Shock. That sums it up. It’s either _don’t think about it_ or start laughing hysterically. _ _

****

__“Well, it isn’t _quite_ the Circle. He said the Circle was like, the upper echelon of supremacist assholery, the high court, so to speak. These are like...I dunno. The plebs. The ones doing the dirty work.” Rhiannon narrows her eyes in thought. “He’s also got a child and a boyfriend, but that doesn’t ma—” _ _

****

__“He’s got a _what_?!” the Shadowhunters demand in unison. _ _

****

__Rhiannon sighs, slumping down to lean her elbows on her knees. “It isn’t for me to tell. He’s just—I’m just—I’m worried, alright? We’ve been pissing a lot of people off, and they were already looking for him—”_ _

****

__“This doesn’t have anything to do with Sammael, does it?” Simon interrupts, looking a little nervous._ _

****

__Rhiannon gives him a blank look. “Who?”_ _

__He sits back, some of the tension going out of his shoulders. “Never mind.”_ _

__No one speaks for a moment, everyone processing what the hell just happened. Privately, Clary thinks they’re going to need anywhere from a few days to a few months to process all the information Rhiannon’s thrown at them._ _

__Isabelle is the first to break the silence. “Well. Sorry to tell you this, but we’re busy enough on our own. Without looking for a dead man.” Rhiannon starts to protest, but Izzy shoots her a fierce glare, looking up from her nails. “We can’t help you.”_ _

****

__The warlock leans forwards, hands on the table. She closes her eyes, nostrils flaring, as if praying for patience. When she speaks, her voice is deathly quiet._ _

****

__“Listen to me. I don’t care what your history with him is. Put it in a box. Lock it up. He isn’t who he was. No, _don’t_ interrupt me,” she says when Izzy opens her mouth. “I remember the Dark War, too. I lost people, too. So _trust me_ when I say, I did not befriend him lightly. And believe me when I say I wouldn’t be here, asking for a _Shadowhunter’s_ help—” she spits the word Shadowhunter out like poison— “if I had _any. other. choice._ I told him I’d watch his back, and I didn’t do that. So now I’m asking you to help me _find him,_ because there are people who love him, and miss him, and I owe it to them as much as to him to find him.” _ _

****

__Alec sighs. “Look, even if we wanted to help you—”_ _

****

__Isabelle’s mouth drops open, appalled. “You can’t _possibly_ be thinking—” _ _

****

__“We wouldn’t know where to start,” Alec finishes. Clary suspects he’s trying to let her down easily because he’s a decent person who hates conflict, not because he’s actually sorry he can’t help. “And we have a responsibility to the people here in New York first. We can’t just leave when there are murders going on—”_ _

****

__“Ah,” Rhiannon interrupts delicately. Her expression turns sheepish. “The murders. Right. Um, well, see, here’s the thing—”_ _

****

__“You know who the murderer is,” Jace says flatly._ _

****

__She hesitates, picking at a crack in the wood that Clary swears hadn’t been there before. “I might.”_ _

****

__"And you’re not just gonna tell us, are you.”_ _

****

__She grins. “Why would I give away the only piece of leverage I’ve apparently got?”_ _

****

__Clary can’t figure out how everyone else is so calm about the whole _he’s alive_ thing. Greater Demons, serial killing and now this? _Raziel, I am so sorry I was ever bored patrolling, please send us back to that time._ She’d kill to be bored again. _ _

****

__“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Clary’s surprised to hear herself speak. Rhiannon glances back to her, eyes narrowing._ _

****

__“You don’t,” she says simply. “But I’m fairly sure your warlock would know something. We _did_ run into Catarina a few times.” _ _

****

__“He isn’t _my_ warlock,” Alec mutters, rubbing his temple. But he doesn’t protest further, either. _ _

****

__Isabelle throws up her hands. “Okay, _fine_ , we go find Magnus, and then what?” _ _

****

__No one answers._ _

****

__“What? You’re going to help her?” She crosses her arms. “ _He killed Max,_ Alec.” There’s a collective intake of breath at the reminder. Simon starts to reach out, but she shakes her head. Rhiannon watches her, expression blank. Isabelle’s eyes glisten as she continues, “He killed Max, and he tortured Magnus and you’re just going to help _save_ him?” _ _

****

__An uncomfortable silence falls over the room, a shroud woven with grief and memory. If Clary closes her eyes, she can almost see Edom again, can almost smell the sulfur and ash. They’d been desperate to go there. Desperate and reckless, and the fact that they’d survived was a miracle. Amatis, she thinks, remembering that split-second of recognition in the woman’s eyes before she fell. Remembers Luke’s grief. Remembers throwing Jonathan’s ashes into Lake Lyn, remembers crying, remembers mourning._ _

****

__And now he’s alive again._ _

****

__“We’ll go Magnus’, double check to see if there’s a chance he’s really alive,” Clary finds herself saying. Isabelle gives her a betrayed look. Clary wraps her arms around herself, willing her voice not to shake. “I need to know, Izzy. I need to at least know if he’s alive or not. I don’t know what we’ll do next, but—” She shrugs, helpless. “We’ll figure it out, I guess.”_ _

****

__Rhiannon, as if sensing this is the best she’s going to get, hops off the table and stretches. “Right. Off we go, then. Not a moment to lose.”_ _

****

__No one moves to follow her from the room. The warlock pauses mid-step. Her expression softens._ _

****

__“Look. If there was any way for us to keep this from you, to keep you from reliving your grief, we would’ve taken it. I know you don’t know me, but I’m not particularly fond of making decent people suffer. Shitty people, on the other hand—” She smirks. When no one laughs, she sighs. “Tough crowd,” she mutters. Louder, she says, “We didn’t want to come to you for a reason. But we’re out of options. And we wouldn't’ have been able to go without attracting attention for much longer.”_ _

****

__Isabelle glances at Clary. “Just to see if he’s alive.”_ _

****

__Clary manages to give her some semblance of a grateful smile, even as her heart hammers in her chest. “Just to see if he’s alive.”_ _

****May 27, 2008** **

Jonathan had managed to get a minor arsenal in his room, between being funneled from the bedroom to the ritual room and back. Sconces, forks, knives, broken glass, broken pipes—anything that could possibly be used as a weapon. He knew they’d noticed his returning strength; they’d tried to bleed him more often for longer. As if that would be enough, all on its own, to weaken him. He was used to pain, used to working through it. Valentine had rarely afforded him— _Sebastian,_ he reminded himself; they were different people—a moment’s peace; Hell had been much the same. 

****

__His body had become a patchwork of new scars to go with the old, some fresh, some healed. He didn’t care. He didn’t need to be pretty. He just needed to be alive._ _

****

___Today,_ he told himself, watching the door, a jagged broken pipe hidden up one sleeve and a glass tied to a butter knife in another. Forks tucked beneath his shirt, the tines scraping his back with every move. Another makeshift glass knife, tucked into his shoes. Makeshift weapons for a makeshift escape. A grim smile curved his lips. Either he got out, or they killed him. Win-win. _ _

****

__The doorknob turned._ _

****

__The door opened._ _

****

__He bowed his head as the man walked in—Jonathan had taken to calling him Mount O-lame-pus—and hauled him upright. It had been weeks since he’d actually needed help standing, but it couldn’t hurt for them to think he needed the help. All the better to surprise them._ _

****

__There were two exits from this place that he knew of. North and west. Both were equally accessible from an intersection fifty-four steps from his room, judging by the few times they’d taken him outside to see if _outside_ worked better for their ritual than _in_ (spoiler alert: it didn’t). Both exits were heavily guarded, but if he made enough of a commotion, the guards would move in to help. He didn’t think they had enough people that the exits’ guards could stay at their posts if he made a scene in the centre. _ _

****

__Fifty steps._ _

****

__Fifty-one steps._ _

****

__Fifty-two steps._ _

****

__He took a discreet breath, turning his hands up to catch the pipe and the glass knife in the other. The cuts on his arms twinged; he sucked in a breath, beating back the pain._ _

****

__Fifty-three steps. He could see the intersection up ahead. Not many people milled around in the mornings; a quick head count yielded only ten people including him and the man, spread out in the hallways. Difficult, but doable. If he ran like hell, he should be fine._ _

****

__Fifty-four steps. Middle of the intersection. The man took his next step—_ _

****

__And Jonathan slashed down with the pipe._ _

****

__The man screamed as metal cut through the back of his knee. Jonathan ran before the man had even fallen to the ground._ _

****

__Around him, people unsheathed weapons. Alarmed shouts rose up around the hall. He sprinted down hall after hall, trying to remember the turns. He couldn’t get turned around. Not now. He didn’t have _time._ _ _

****

__He turned the corner—_ _

****

__Four people stood between him and the next turn. Footsteps echoed behind him, barely muffled by the carpet. He chanced a glance over his shoulders to see another five arrive behind him. _Fuck._ All armed. All looking very pissed. _ _

****

__Nine well-armed, professional criminals against one teenager with a broken pipe. He almost laughed._ _

****

__If he still had demon blood, he could probably have jumped over them._ _

****

__Alas, he had nothing but his wits and a blood-slick pipe and a glass knife._ _

****

__“If you put the knife down, we won’t hurt you,” one of them said, voice soothing. As if calming a spooked animal. Jonathan supposed that was what he was, in a way._ _

****

__He watched as they advanced, weighing his options. The door was just past this hallway, twenty walking steps, so probably ten running steps. Even if he got injured in this fight, he’d be able to make it. Probably._ _

****

__Hopefully._ _

****

__He gave them a cocky grin, raising his weapons. “I think I’ll take my chances.”_ _

****

__And they lunged._ _

****

__Jonathan lost himself to the rhythm of the fight. _Duck. Dodge. Parry. Stab. Elbow, duck._ Pain ripped through him as barely-healed cuts reopened and new ones appeared. Someone’s fist slammed into his ribs. A distinct crack echoed as pain exploded. Stab. A thud. _ _

****

__He lost his pipe somewhere, though he held onto his knife. _Duck. Block. Duck. Stab. Ignore the pain. Ignore. The. Pain._ Hands grabbed his shirt and _pulled,_ almost yanking him off his feet. He slashed backwards blindly. A pained grunt and the hands fell away. _ _

****

__Clear. The path was clear._ _

****

__Leaping over the bodies, he sprinted for the hall. A knife whistled past him, nicking the side of his neck. Not deep enough to be a problem. His legs burned, from exertion and from injury._ _

****

__There was only one guard at the door. His mouth dropped open as Jonathan approached. He must’ve been quite a sight, he thought wildly. Bloody with a—_ _

****

__A knife slammed into his shoulder blade. He almost collapsed from the force of it. _The door is right. there. _He staggered forwards. The guard’s eyes widened comically. Footsteps echoed behind him, shouts of _get him_ and _hurry up._ __ _ _

****

_____No,_ he thought, half-delirious, _no, you can’t have me, no one can have me ever again.__ _ _ _

****

____The guard reached to lock the door—_ _ _ _

****

____And Jonathan threw the knife._ _ _ _

****

____If he was being realistic, he’d admit he had an incredibly low chance of actually hitting him. Jonathan was out of practice, weak from blood loss, injured and in pain, and the knife wasn’t balanced properly. He’d probably given up his only easily accessible weapon for nothing._ _ _ _

****

____It hit the guard’s hand, hard enough to pin his hand to the wall behind him. His screams blended with the cacophony of rage and disbelief behind him._ _ _ _

****

____“Sorry,” he said as he passed him, voice rough from disuse._ _ _ _

****

____And he was outside._ _ _ _

****

____He spun around, pulling at the first heavy thing he saw (a rotting couch) and pulled it to barricade the door. It opened outwards; this should stall them for a bit. He dropped his arms, staggering back. His body was on fire; pain scorched through most semblances of reason._ _ _ _

****

____His shoulder crashed into the opposite wall of the alley, and he cried out in pain. The knife in his back was a steady burn, slowly stripping away at his consciousness. His sight flickered from black to clear and back again, over and over._ _ _ _

****

____He pressed a hand to the wall, ignoring how absolutely filthy it was, and stumbled for the road. Mundanes moved along in droves, hurrying to work and school in fashionable hordes. He didn’t belong there, not least because he was bloody and filthy and half-starved._ _ _ _

****

____Shouts of alarm resounded as he made it onto the main road. He blinked spots out of his vision, glancing back. They would’ve gotten the door open by now. They’d be coming, coming—_ _ _ _

****

____Two emerged at the alley’s entrance, caught his eye. And they _laughed._ _ _ _ _

****

____“Run all you want, little Morgenstern,” one of them called. “We’ll find you.”_ _ _ _

****

____Jonathan turned back around, refusing to give into the dread that came with the words. _A little farther,_ he told himself. Even his thoughts were breathless. _Just a little farther,_ but _by the Angel,_ it hurt. One leg gave out, and he barely caught himself on another. He went to take another step—_ _ _ _

****

____His legs collapsed from underneath him._ _ _ _

****

_____Oh,_ he thought with detached interest. _I think I’m dying again._ _ _ _ _

****

____The pain had faded to a dull roar, a dull roar like the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, like his heart pounding in his chest. He fought to keep his eyes open. Hands shook him—voices calling to each other in the street—”Someone call 144, please, hurry!”—_ _ _ _

****

____He tried to tell them not to bother. Tried to tell them they should let him die, let that right the scales the fools who brought him back had upset. His mouth wouldn’t work, though. Wouldn’t open._ _ _ _

****

____His eyes drifted shut again. _Just for a little while,_ he thought. _I’ll just rest for a little while._ _ _ _ _

****

____The dark welcomed him home with a soft kiss and a warm embrace._ _ _ _

****November 8, 2010 ********

____Magnus’ flat has been taken over by toys. Clary sidesteps a giant felt car, fighting a smile at the sight of little Max Lightwood-Bane. He toddles over to Alec with a smile, holds his arms up._ _ _ _

****

____“Dada!” he calls brightly._ _ _ _

****

____Alec’s eyes brighten as he scoops Max up. “Hi, baby. Have you been good for your other dad today?”_ _ _ _

****

____Max nods seriously, little hands clutching Alec’s shirt, babbling on in toddler-speak. Clary leads the others into the living room as Alec heads off in search of Magnus. Rhiannon watches Alec and Max go with a tight look. She crosses her arms, leaning back against the bookshelf. Clary studies her, cataloguing the furrowed brow and tense shoulders and slight frown. Her hair is frizzing slightly, though it’d been sleek as silk before._ _ _ _

****

____“Alright, _what_ are all of you doing here?” Clary snaps out of her silent appraisal at Magnus’ voice. He’s wearing a glittery pink robe lined with fur. His hair is out of its usual spikes, left to fall naturally over his forehead. Alec, behind him, sets Max down. “What’s this I’m hearing about—” His gaze snags on Rhiannon. He gives her a surprised look. “Rhiannon Locke. Tessa’s told me about you. And Catarina.” _ _ _ _

****

____Clary gives Rhiannon a surprised look. “You know Tessa?”_ _ _ _

****

____Rhiannon shrugs, shifting slightly. “We’ve met.”_ _ _ _

****

____Magnus sets himself down with his usual flair, billowing robe and arms on the armrests. “Not that I’m not happy to see all of you—and meet you—” he directs at Rhiannon, who tenses slightly— “all Alec’s told me is you need to talk to me. But I’m pretty sure you don’t need six people to talk to me since, I’ve been assured, this isn’t an official state visit. Is it? If it is, I should probably put on some pants—”_ _ _ _

****

____“It’s not,” Jace interrupts, voice brisk. Magnus straightens at his tone. “Have you talked to Catarina recently?”_ _ _ _

****

____Magnus’ brow furrows. “No. She was in Europe, the last I checked. France, I think. Why?”_ _ _ _

****

____“Because apparently she met Jonathan Morgenstern about a year ago,” Isabelle says icily._ _ _ _

****

____Magnus’ eyes go wide. He looks between them, waiting for someone to correct her. When no one does, he settles back._ _ _ _

****

____“Jonathan Morgenstern’s alive?”_ _ _ _

****

____“Brought back two years ago,” Rhiannon says. “Early April, he thinks.”_ _ _ _

****

____“That...makes sense.” Surprise flits across Magnus’ expression. “April 2008, then?” Rhiannon nods. His eyes are thoughtful. “Magic like that—necromancy—it leaves an echo on the world. Like casting a stone into a lake. The fact that it was done successfully—” He exhales slowly. “There was a disturbance like that, around that time.”_ _ _ _

****

____Simon’s lips twitch. _I sense a disturbance in the Force,_ he mouths at Clary, who smothers a grin. Isabelle smacks him on the arm, though her expression softens. _ _ _ _

****

____“I thought it was just some mundane fooling around with magic they didn’t understand, something someone had stumbled upon accidentally. But if there was necromancy involved…You said you met Catarina?” he asks Rhiannon._ _ _ _

****

____Rhiannon nods. “Jonathan did, first. I met her later. We left her a thank-you note for—” she hesitates— “for helping us. So I’m not lying.” She lifts her chin, daring someone to argue. _She’s a fierce one,_ Clary finds herself thinking. She wonders how Jonathan found her. _ _ _ _

****

____“Did he ever say how or why he was resurrected?” Magnus asks._ _ _ _

****

____Rhiannon tilts her head, thoughtful. She drums her fingers against her forearm. The rest of them watch the exchange with rapt interest, some hoping to catch Rhiannon in a lie, some because they believe her despite their wishes to the contrary._ _ _ _

****

____“They made a mistake,” she says after a moment. “He said the first thing he heard when he came back was that he was the _wrong one._ They were trying to bring Valentine back, not him.” Her expression darkens. “Thank fuck they didn’t manage _that._ He doesn’t know how, though. Just that some ritual was involved, but, I mean, that doesn’t exactly tell us anything.” _ _ _ _

****

____Clary doesn’t doubt that Jonathan is back. It’s hardly the first time he’s been brought back to life, though she’s surprised demons had nothing to do with it. She’s more surprised she hasn’t heard about it. If Jonathan Morgenstern has been alive for two years, you’d think there would’ve been more panic in the Shadow World._ _ _ _

****

____Max chooses then to toddle into the room, waving one of his books. Instead of going to his father, he walks right up to Rhiannon, staring up at her with wide blue eyes. Rhiannon stares back, raising an eyebrow. Max smiles, that guileless gummy smile toddlers tend to give their victims before latching on, and wraps his arms around her legs._ _ _ _

****

____“Let’s say he’s alive,” Jace says, leaning forwards. His eyes have gone sharp, the way they do when he’s thinking about plans and contingencies and possibilities. The gold hardens, gleams like metal in sunlight. A thrill goes through Clary at the sight. “Where’s he been hiding? Why hasn’t anyone raised the alarm?”_ _ _ _

****

____Rhiannon snorts, reaching down and trying to peel Max from her legs. “If you saw him in a bar, would _you_ believe you were looking at Jonathan Morgenstern, or would you think you’d seen a doppelganger? No one in the Shadow World wants to believe he’s alive, and people see what they want to see. It’s easy for him to pretend he’s someone else. Plus. The green eyes throw them.” _ _ _ _

****

____Clary’s head snaps up. “Green eyes?”_ _ _ _

****

____“Yep. Green as pine.”_ _ _ _

****

____Clary squeezes her eyes shut. _I dreamed once, of a manor and a little girl with red hair, and preparations for a wedding._ Grief claws at her throat, begging to be released. Her brother. Green-eyed and missing. He wouldn’t be Sebastian anymore, then. That explains why Rhiannon hasn’t been calling him anything other than Jonathan. _ _ _ _

****

____In a mind’s-eye, she sees green eyes and a cheerful manor. Sees blood and red desert._ _ _ _

****

____“You’re serious,” Isabelle says. Her voice is missing its previous sharpness. In its place is a softer cousin of shock. Disbelief, maybe. “He’s really not Sebastian. This isn’t a trap.”_ _ _ _

****

____“No. No, it’s not.” Clary opens her eyes to see Rhiannon’s shoulders slump. She laughs, a tired sound missing all its humour. She rubs her face with one hand. Max, sensing the shift in mood, lets her go and makes his way to Magnus, who scoops him up. “I really, really wish it was a prank. Or a trap. Or literally _anything_ else, but it’s not. He’s missing, and I—” She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly looking painfully young. “He’s my friend, you know? One of the only ones I have. And he might not think he deserves another chance to live, but he’s an idiot, and he does.” _ _ _ _

****

____The exhaustion, the hopelessness, the fear—Clary’s almost forgotten how that feels. It’s been years of relative peace for them. Patrols, paperwork, training, no danger but what comes with being a Shadowhunter. She’s gotten lucky, she thinks, looking around the room. Lucky she’s had her friends, lucky she got Simon back, so, so lucky that she survived, and healed, and keeps healing._ _ _ _

****

____Her eyes pause on Jace, who’s talking to Alec quietly. What would she have done if she hadn’t been able to find him? What about Simon, all those times he went missing?_ _ _ _

****

____“I’ll help you,” she says, eyes on both her boyfriend and her _parabatai._ “I’ll help you find—” her voice snags as she tries to say his name, tries to say _Jonathan Morgenstern,_ and she can’t, so she settles for— “my brother.” _ _ _ _

****

____Jace grins. “Bold of you to think I’m not coming with you.”_ _ _ _

****

____Simon glances at Izzy, just for a moment, before nodding. “Whither thou goest, I go also, right?”_ _ _ _

****

____The Lightwoods exchange long-suffering glances before Alec says, “I’d rather not let Jace out of my sight for however long this is gonna take. I trust you,” he tells Clary, “but you’re as reckless as him sometimes.”_ _ _ _

****

____And that left—_ _ _ _

****

____“Izzy?” Simon asks tentatively. He says her name like forgiveness given before the fact. None of them would blame her if she chose to stay behind. Max...She took Max’s death harder than any of them. Clary almost wants to ask her to stay behind, if only to spare her the possibility of having to look her brother’s murderer in the eye and save him._ _ _ _

****

____But the boy they’re looking for now isn’t the same one who killed Max with a hammer._ _ _ _

****

____But does that distinction really matter when they’ll look so similar?_ _ _ _

****

____Isabelle sighs. “I still think we should let him rot.”_ _ _ _

****

____Simon grins at her, giving her hand a squeeze. “You can tell him that if we find him.”_ _ _ _

****

____“When,” Rhiannon corrects. Relief is clear in her eyes. “ _When_ we find him.” _ _ _ _

****

____“Just one more thing,” Alec says, turning to Rhiannon. “Who’s committing the murders? We’ve agreed to help you. You don’t need the leverage anymore.”_ _ _ _

****

____That odd sheepish look returns to Rhiannon’s face. “Oh. Um. That would be us, actually.”_ _ _ _

****

____Jace gapes at her. “Seriously? It’s been you the whole time?”_ _ _ _

****

____Rhiannon shrugs. “Me, Jonathan. A—His boyfriend. Depends on who got to them first.” She stiffens at the looks on their faces. “Look, they aren’t good people,” she says, defensive. “Trust me. We’ve been trying to find the people involved in bringing Jonathan back, getting to them before they can bring _Valentine_ back.” _ _ _ _

****

____“Why would they even _want_ Valentine back?” Simon asks. “I mean, if you were on his side, he failed. If you were against him, you think he’s a dick. So why—” _ _ _ _

****

____“Well, that’s the thing. They don’t _think_ he failed. They think he didn’t calculate for Clary being able to change the runes, which means they _think_ if they bring him back again, he could accomplish what he set out to do. For good, this time.” She makes a face. “Obviously, I’d rather he didn’t. So would Jonathan.” _ _ _ _

****

____“And they want Jonathan because…”_ _ _ _

****

____“Magic that has to do with people is always easier if you have something belonging to the person,” Magnus says. “Think of it like tracking someone. If you have something that belongs to them, like a necklace, you can do it. If you have a bit of their blood, you can find them easily. The more similar, the more connected. You can’t track a family member by another family member’s blood, though. Since I assume that’s what they want to do.” This, he says to Rhiannon. “Bring Valentine back with Jonathan’s blood instead of sigils.”_ _ _ _

****

____“We think they’re planning to use both.” Magnus groans, and Rhiannon smirks. “Yeah. Trust me, I’m not happy ‘bout it either.”_ _ _ _

****

____“So kill or be killed, basically? That’s why you’ve been killing them?” Simon leans back. “That is...so much simpler than all our theories.”_ _ _ _

****

____Rhiannon glances at him, an amused tilt to her lips. “What were your theories?”_ _ _ _

****

____“Personal vendetta.”_ _ _ _

****

____“Organized crime,” Jace adds._ _ _ _

****

____“Cult to a demon gone wrong,” Clary says._ _ _ _

****

____“No connection whatsoever,” Alec says with a tired smile. “We had nothing, obviously.”_ _ _ _

****

____She gives them a considering look. “None of you are wrong, actually. Not bad.”_ _ _ _

****

____“But if he’s been missing for months and more bodies have cropped up—”_ _ _ _

****

____“I don’t know,” Rhiannon interrupts, real frustration sneaking into her voice. “I don’t bloody know, because he’s a ridiculously private person who doesn’t tell anyone what he’s doing before he does it, but even _you_ must’ve noticed the murders have stopped now. So he’s well and truly missing.” _ _ _ _

****

____“Maybe he’s just laying low. The Clave’s been all over the murders.”_ _ _ _

****

____Rhiannon shakes her head. “I’ve been to the safehouses he might’ve used to hide. He isn’t in any of them. I’ve put messages out for him to see and he hasn’t responded to a single one. He isn’t hiding.” She straightens. “Look, if that’s all, I should get back.”_ _ _ _

****

____Clary stands. “D’you have somewhere to stay? My house has an extra room—”_ _ _ _

****

____“I’m fine.” Rhiannon manages an unconvincing smile. “Really. I just—I’ve got somewhere to stay. Thanks, though.”_ _ _ _

****

____“The Institute’s got space, too,” Alec says. It’d be easy to keep an eye on her there. Watch for any suspicious activity._ _ _ _

****

____Rhiannon seems to draw the same conclusions. She raises an eyebrow at him. He holds his hands up in surrender._ _ _ _

****

____“I’ll meet you tomorrow, then. Morning.” She tucks her hands in her pockets. “We shouldn’t wait too long before we go.”_ _ _ _

****

____“Luke’s farm?” Clary suggests. It’s out of the way, with plenty of open space for opening Portals. A chorus of agreement. “It’s just outside city limits,” she tells Rhiannon, who grins._ _ _ _

****

____“I’ll find you, don’t you worry about that, _lasta._ I’m not completely useless as a warlock.” _ _ _ _

****

____Before anyone can say anything else, she ducks out of the room. The door opens and closes seconds later. They’re left with a silence filled with too many memories and not enough space._ _ _ _

****

____“Well,” Magnus says, Max on his lap fiddling with the fur on his robe. “If nothing else, that was certainly interesting.”_ _ _ _

****June 1, 2008** **

____Technically, Jonathan shouldn’t have left the hospital. The doctors had told him, the nurses had told him, the lad at the front desk had told him as he signed himself out, but he didn’t particularly care. He couldn’t stay there. They’d be looking for him in Geneva. He had to get out of the city. Ideally, out of the country._ _ _ _

****

____He clutched his paper bag of medication in a bandaged hand, limbs aching. Shadowhunters didn’t usually have to deal with lingering aches and pains from injuries; that was what iratzes were for. Valentine had left his injuries unhealed, sometimes, even taken his stele away, but he’d still been used to relatively prompt recovery._ _ _ _

****

____He’d been so unbelievably spoiled._ _ _ _

****

____Jonathan hissed as he settled onto the train seat. He hugged his meds close, glaring unseeingly at the seats across from him. He didn’t think he’d ever been on a train before, like some mundane. But he supposed he was, for all intents and purposes, a mundane now. No stele, no runes except for Voyance on his right hand, no weapons, no holy divine mission._ _ _ _

****

____It was odd. He was more or less running for his life, yet he’d never been more free in his life._ _ _ _

****

____Even when the train started moving, no one came to sit near him. Some seemed to consider it before they got a good look at all the bandages and angry cuts and the cold eyes. He told himself he didn’t mind it. That he was glad to be alone. Just like all the times before, it rang hollow._ _ _ _

****

____He sighed and leaned his head back against the seat, baring his throat to the world. He even closed his eyes._ _ _ _

****

_____You want me? Come and fucking get me._ _ _ _ _

****

____He was so tired._ _ _ _

****

____Eventually, he opened his eyes again, forcing back the pain. He’d refused the painkillers, though he’d taken their bag of medicine. He was a Shadowhunter. He was a Morgenstern. He could handle a bit of pain._ _ _ _

****

____He just needed to get to Lyon. There, he had steles, weapons, training facilities, anything he needed. It’d be a decent place to stay safe, lay low. Maybe he’d go to New York after. A humourless smile twisted his lips as he considered showing up on his sister’s doorstep._ _ _ _

****

____Clarissa Fairchild._ _ _ _

****

____She’d probably stab him again. He might even thank her._ _ _ _

****

____Slumping in his seat, his eyes unfocused, memory taking him hostage. Edom, with its red sands and bloody sky. The apartment blowing apart behind him. His mother’s tear-stained face. _Do mothers forgive?_ He took a shaking breath. Let it out. Caught his reflection in the mirror. _ _ _ _

****

____There’d been no mirrors in his cupboard/bedroom, and he hadn’t looked in one while he was at the hospital. The only thing he knew, appearance-wise, was that there was some raised marking on his shoulder; when he traced it, it felt like a sigil of sorts. Leftover from the resurrection, he assumed._ _ _ _

****

____He looked now, out of a morbid curiosity. His hair, as pale as he remembered, was long enough to curve slightly just above his shoulders. He had a starved, weary look, cheekbones too sharp and dark circles under his eyes. And his eyes—slowly, apprehensively, he dragged his gaze up to meet his own eyes, huge in his too-thin face._ _ _ _

****

____Green._ _ _ _

****

____Jonathan breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t even realized he’d expected to see black until he’d seen the green._ _ _ _

****

____Lyon, he thought, smiling slightly. Then he could figure out what to do. He held the meds closer still. He could do this. He could figure this out. He could figure out how to live._ _ _ _

****November 8, 2010** **

____Clary can’t look her mother in the face. She’s made about ten different excuses for it so far, from _I’m just tired_ to _I’m worried about the murders._ It’d be easy to tell the truth. Maybe. But she can’t imagine looking up and saying, _yeah, by the way, the brother that I murdered three years ago is alive and I need to help a warlock I just met find him._ _ _ _ _

****

____Mom had just started releasing all the guilt and grief she felt over him. Clary couldn’t drag that back up._ _ _ _

****

____“Alright, out with it.”_ _ _ _

****

____Clary starts, almost dropping the plate she’d been absentmindedly drying. Luke leans against the counter, watching her with knowing blue eyes._ _ _ _

****

____“What?” Her voice cracks halfway through the word._ _ _ _

****

____He takes the plate from her, putting it away in the cupboard. “You’ve been acting strange all night. And I’d believe it was about the murders, but those have been happening for months, and they haven’t affected you like this before.” He turns around and raises his eyebrows as if to say, _so?_ _ _ _ _

****

____Clary stands there, hands still in front of her as if she were still holding that damn plate, like an absolute idiot. She doesn’t know where to start. Doesn’t know how to get the words out. She’s thought them, hundreds of times by now, and it still doesn’t feel real._ _ _ _

****

____Somehow, she manages to say, “My brother is alive.”_ _ _ _

****

____The world doesn’t tilt on its axis. The ground doesn’t fall out from beneath her feet, doesn’t dissolve into quicksand, doesn’t vanish._ _ _ _

****

____She says it again, because she still can’t believe it, because she needs to hear it, needs to feel her own lips shape the words instead of hearing it from another’s._ _ _ _

****

____“My brother is alive.”_ _ _ _

****

____A hysterical laugh claws out of her throat and she muffles it with a hand. Her shoulders shake with the force of it. Luke pulls her into his arms, holds her tight like he used to when she was a child and scraped her knee playing on the sidewalks with Simon, and somewhere along the line, the laughter turns into sobs and she can’t breathe through the pain._ _ _ _

****

____Grief is a strange thing, she thinks distantly. You think it’s gone, think it’s passed, but then it rears its head and breathes fire over all the progress you’ve made._ _ _ _

****

____Maybe she should draw this. A dragon and a town. A dragon and a sapling forest._ _ _ _

****

____“I’m here,” Luke says quietly, tucking her head beneath his chin. “I’m here, kid.”_ _ _ _

****

____It could be hours that they’re standing there. Could be minutes. Could be whole eons, with glaciers receding and the sea levels rising and new species outside their door. Mostly, it’s irrelevant._ _ _ _

****

____“So Jonathan’s alive, huh?” Luke asks, handing her a box of tissues. She sniffle-laughs, nodding. He leans against the counter, elbows on the marble. “I don’t know why, but I’m...really not that surprised.”_ _ _ _

****

____This time, she properly laughs. She isn’t surprised either, if she’s being honest. Something about her brother has always seemed timeless. Invincible. Maybe it’s the tragedy of it, of a boy who never got to live. The injustice. Tragedies have existed for thousands of years, and will probably continue for another thousand. Maybe that’s it._ _ _ _

****

____“I’m guessing this is why you couldn’t look your mother in the eye.” Clary nods again. Luke sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’s quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands. A myriad of emotions flit across his face—grief, anger, weariness, hope, regret. She wonders if he’s like Isabelle. If, now that Jonathan isn’t dying from a stab wound in front of them, the anger he hadn’t felt towards Jonathan for Amatis’ death has hit him for the first time. If, now that there’s a man who’s alive for him to hate, he does._ _ _ _

****

____After a long moment, he straightens, collecting himself. “Is he in New York?”_ _ _ _

****

____Clary’s thrown. “Uh, no. No, he’s, um, he’s missing, actually.” That’s easier to say._ _ _ _

****

____Luke looks up sharply. “Missing?”_ _ _ _

****

____“A friend of his showed up at the Institute. Wants us to help her find him. He’s been missing for a couple months.”_ _ _ _

****

____Luke’s eyes widen. “How long has he been—”_ _ _ _

****

____“Alive? Two years, apparently.” She can’t quite keep the bitterness from her voice. _Why didn’t you come to us?_ she wants to ask him, Jonathan, her brother, a dead man walking. _Why didn’t you come home?_ Even as she thinks it, she knows the answer. _ _ _ _

****

____Of course he wouldn’t come here. He didn’t know them._ _ _ _

****

____They wouldn’t have helped him, anyways._ _ _ _

****

____“We’re gonna help her,” she says into the stunned silence. “We’re gonna help her find him. I don’t know what we’ll find, or who he’ll be, but I think I wanna meet him. At least once.”_ _ _ _

****

____Her brain goes haywire with scenarios, images of Simon and Rebecca teasing each other and stepping on each other’s nerves, of Izzy playing pranks on Alec, of herself and Simon, talking into the night about nothing at all. She imagines having that with a brother. An actual, real life, blood brother. She isn’t sure if the thought reassures her or terrifies her._ _ _ _

****

____Luke offers her a smile, a little wan and surprised at the edges. “Of course you do.” He pauses. “The Clave doesn’t know about this, do they?”_ _ _ _

****

____“Jace and I are the Clave,” she says automatically, a line Maryse had fed them again and again once they’d agreed to take over. Luke’s eyebrows shot up. She slumps down. “No. We didn’t tell anyone. And I don’t think we will.”_ _ _ _

****

____“Good.” Luke knocks on the counter, straightening up. “The Clave isn’t always the most understanding when it comes to strange things and new people.” He glances at the stairs, eyes going distant. “I can tell Jocelyn, if you want. About Jonathan.”_ _ _ _

****

____Relief barrels into Clary. Maybe it makes her a coward, but she can’t bring herself to face the brunt of her mother’s grief and shock. Not when she’s sorting through her own._ _ _ _

****

____“Thank you,” she breathes. Luke smiles again, tired and warm, and starts out of the kitchen._ _ _ _

****

____“Good night, Clary.”_ _ _ _

****


	2. A Cathedral Around Our Bodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search begins in flames. Literally.
> 
> TW: alcohol, violence, blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all are enjoying the fic so far! Let me know if I've missed any TWs. 
> 
> Chapter title from "coda" by James Tate
> 
> SONGS:  
> Vienna—Billy Joel  
> Come Go with Me—The Del-Vikings  
> The World Ender—Lord Huron

**November 9, 2010**

Clary is, in a word, exhausted. She’d spent last night tossing and turning, mind racing, before giving up in the early hours of the morning and picking up her sketchbook. She pokes at her cereal, appetite gone. Nerves have settled in her chest, making breathing nearly impossible. They won’t find him today. She isn’t an idiot. She knows that. But the reality of what she’s doing is only now sinking in. 

Mom putters around in the kitchen, making more work for herself than she needs to. Her eyes are red-rimmed. Clary sets her spoon down. 

“Mom?”

“Hm?”

“Luke told you, didn’t he.”

Mom freezes. When she turns, there’s something so fragile about her expression. Like the slightest tap might shatter her. 

“About—”

“Jonathan. Yes, he told me.” Mom comes to sit across from Clary. Her hands are shaking. “I keep thinking I’ve accepted he’s gone,” she says softly. “That I’ll never hold my son, that I’ll never apologize to him, that I’ll never get to tell him there is nothing to forgive, even with all he did. I keep thinking I’ve accepted that,” she repeats, looking up, “until I get the chance to believe otherwise, after all.” Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. She takes a deep breath, reaching across the table to take Clary’s hands. “When you find him—” Mom pauses, either searching for words or composing herself, before saying. “Tell him I’m sorry. For leaving him with Valentine. For not trying harder to find him. I shouldn’t have been so afraid. I could’ve asked Magnus to look for them, or—”

“Mom. No.” Clary squeezes her hands. “It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known. No one knew Valentine was alive until he was ready to take the Mortal Cup. He was too well hidden.” _Jonathan won’t blame you, either,_ she wants to say, but she didn’t know if that was true. Instead, she says, “I’ll tell him. But it isn’t your fault. What happened to him isn’t anyone’s fault but Valentine’s.”

“I shouldn’t have married him—”

“You didn’t _know._ You couldn’t have known. You weren’t the only one who believed in Valentine. He was good at making people believe in him. That’s why he was so dangerous.” 

_That’s why people still want to bring him back,_ she realizes. _Because they still think he can save them._ Clary stands, leaving her half-full bowl of cereal to the sink. She isn’t going to be able to finish it. She doesn’t think she can stand to eat. 

“If we find him, I’ll bring him to meet you.” She turns back around. “I think he should hear all of this from you.”

Mom nods, mute. Tears cut silver tracks down her cheeks. Her hand covers her mouth as she cries silently. Clary wraps her arms around Mom’s shoulders, leaning her head on her shoulder.

There are moments like this when she can feel all the years of her existence weighing on her shoulders, all meager eighteen years of it. It’s been a while since she was tired like this, tired down to her bones. She remembers the weeks after Edom, when getting out of bed was a chore and sleeping was impossible unless she was with Jace. Nightmares had plagued her sleep; grief had stolen her days. Grief for someone she hadn’t even known. That had been the true cruelty of that dream, she’d thought. The one she’d been shown upon entering Edom. To see what could’ve been, and have it ripped from her. 

Except it wasn’t ripped from her, and it isn’t impossible anymore. 

Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern. The boy with green eyes. 

She holds her mother tighter. Shelter against the coming storm, an umbrella against the rain, a coat turned up against the wind. With more friends and more responsibilities, she’s leaned on her mother less in the last few years. She’s found her footing, found her strength. But she still remembers when Mom was the only shield she had against the world’s cruelties, Mom and Luke and Simon. 

She wonders if Jonathan ever had anyone to hold him when terrible things happened. If he’d ever had a shield, or if he’d weathered all of it himself with nothing but the strength of his will. She thinks of Rhiannon saying, _he’s a ridiculously private person who doesn’t tell anyone what he’s doing before he does it._ What would it have been like, to be so alone with no one but Valentine? 

The now-familiar question echoes in her mind—what is she going to find if she finds him?

Mom sniffles, pulling back. “You need to get going.”

“Mom—”

She waves her hands. “Go! I’ll be fine.” She wipes her cheeks, standing and giving Clary a gentle push. “Go find your brother.”

Rhiannon meets them at Luke’s farmhouse, as promised. The first surprise comes from Alec, which, in itself, is a surprise. 

“Someone needs to cover for you,” he says, expression apologetic. “I’ll stay here, come up with something to tell Mom. Besides—” he smiles, glancing in the direction of Magnus’ flat—”I just got home to my son. I don’t want to leave again so soon. I know I said I’d come, but—”

Jace claps him on the back. “We know.” A smirk. “Don’t miss us too much.”

Alec flips him off. Jace walks away, laughing. Clary stays still, lets it pass her by. _Am I doing this?_ she asks herself. _Am I really about to run off into who knows what to find a brother I don’t even know?_ It’s almost as reckless as looking for him the first time, him and Jace. 

_It’s always Europe,_ she thinks wryly. Whenever shit hits the fan, it’s always Europe. 

“Where to first?” Simon asks Rhiannon, snapping Clary out of her thoughts. She trudges over to where the others have congregated by the lake. Isabelle stands stiffly. Clary’s surprised she decided to come, after all. 

“Lyon,” Rhiannon says. “I haven’t looked there yet.”

“France?”

“Yeah.” She grins. “Hope the lot of you speak French.” 

Clary stands back, waiting for her to make a Portal. Rhiannon doesn’t move. She raises her eyebrow at Clary. 

“So? Portal?”

“You’re a warlock,” Clary points out.

Rhiannon scoffs. “I’m twenty. You think I trust myself to Portal a bunch of people?”

“What, like, actually twenty?” Isabelle demands. “I thought you just _looked_ twenty.”

“Nope. Actually twenty. Well, twenty-two, actually, but close enough.” Rhiannon tucks her hands in her pockets. “I’ve been getting better but, you know, probably better for someone else to do it.” She gives Izzy a beatific, edged smile. “Just in case.”

“I don’t know what Lyon looks like,” Clary says.

“Don’t worry about that. I can change the location once it’s made, I just don’t think I can make a stable one on my own.”

Clary steps forwards before Isabelle can retort, pulling her stele out and dropping her bag to the ground. She carves the rune into tree bark, stepping back as it opens. Rhiannon presses a hand to the wood, brows furrowing in concentration. Silver leaches into the bark like sap. As Clary watches, the scene in the Portal shifts to show sunny cobblestoned streets and quaint facades. A river stretches in the distance, a blue-green ribbon. 

Rhiannon steps back, gesturing to the Portal with a flourish. “After you.”

Jace gives her a shallow bow, grinning, before stepping through the Portal. He emerges on the street on the other side unscathed. Clary releases a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Portals have gone back to normal after Sammael, but she still worries. 

Eventually, only her and Rhiannon are left. They stare at each other, Rhiannon leaning against the tree and Clary gripping the strap of her bag like a lifeline. 

“Do you think he’s there?” Clary asks. 

“No,” Rhiannon admits. “But it can’t hurt to check.”

Clary nods. Stares at the Portal. Tries to make her feet move. She didn’t use to have this hesitance; she used to dive right into questionable situations with little to no regard for the consequences. She’s grown up, she supposes. Or maybe she’s just found reasons to be afraid.

“It’s just France, _lasta_ ,” Rhiannon says, quiet. “France with your boyfriend. Isn’t that what all the heteros want?”

Clary laughs, feet unsticking. Two more steps, and she’s through. 

Bright sunlight and roaring cars greet her. They’re on a busy street, people passing by without noticing them. She glances down at herself, surprised. She didn’t put a Glamour on herself before leaving. 

“This is _le quart de magie,_ ” Rhiannon explains. “No one cares about Shadowhunters or warlocks or whatnot. They’re used to it. This way.” She starts down the street with confident strides as the Shadowhunters exchange bemused glances. Clary hurries after the warlock, dodging important-looking businesspeople. Simon follows close behind her. 

Rhiannon doesn’t speak as she leads them through the winding streets. If she were here for any other reason, Clary might’ve paid more attention to how beautiful Lyon is. Old buildings and cobblestoned streets and stone bridges. One thing Europe has in spades is beautiful architecture; step into any building and you’d have centuries of stories to catch up one. America doesn’t quite have that. 

Clary’s so lost in thought that she runs right into Rhiannon. The warlock stares at a point in the distance, dread darkening her eyes. 

Behind her, Simon asks, “Is that smoke?”

“Yes,” Rhiannon says, voice terse. “It is.” 

She starts walking again, faster now, almost jogging. Clary has to run to keep up with her longer legs. She glances behind her to see Jace and Isabelle shouldering through crowds, expressions grim. They turn the corner—

And freeze. 

An apartment building burns, fire fierce and blue. Mundane fire rescue lines the street, spraying water on the wreckage. It doesn’t seem to be doing anything. A crowd has gathered around the apartment building. 

“No.” Rhiannon stares at it, wide-eyed. Her hand raises as if to cover her mouth but doesn’t quite make up, hanging suspended and useless.“No, no, no—fuck, it can’t—this couldn’t have—he had wards— _no_ —”

She breaks into a dead sprint, uncaring of the raging fire. Clary watches as she stops where the mundanes are, gesticulating wildly. The firefighters nod, cutting off the water. They shout something in French, loud and gruff. _Get away,_ probably. 

“Magic,” Jace says grimly at Clary’s side. 

Clary doesn’t take her eyes off the fire, heart sinking. “Magic,” she agrees, voice soft. 

If her brother had been here, he’d be dead. Well and truly dead. 

Isabelle is the first to unfreeze, to follow Rhiannon towards the fire. It’s gone down a bit, even as they watched. By the time they reached the building, it’d gone down almost completely. Rhiannon leads them around the building wordlessly, picking her way up the stairs.

Up close, the damage is shocking. The walls are barely damaged, but everything within the flat has been burned to a crisp. Ash litters the floor; the stone floor shows through patches of carpet that’ve barely survived.

In front of them, Rhiannon picks her way through the wreckage. Her expression brings Clary up short. Pinched in anxiety, eyes lost. She kneels, scooping up a handful of still-smoking ash. 

“The couch was here,” she says when she notices Clary watching. Her usual bravado is missing. “They had a table there—pictures—gods, his books—” Rhiannon wraps her arms around herself, letting out a choked laugh. “He’s gonna be pissed they burned his books. _Fuck_.”

Clary turns in a slow circle, taking in the destroyed area. He’d lived here, she thinks. Her brother had had a life here, pictures and books and a living space. 

_Oh, Jonathan,_ she thinks. _What have you gotten yourself into now?_

**December 2008**

“Jonathan? Are you home?”

Jonathan started at Adrien’s voice calling out to him in French, half-leaping out of the training room. He fumbled with the lock before sprinting down the hall. 

“In here!” he called in the same language, throwing himself onto the bed and picking up a book. He glanced down at himself and winced. He was still in training gear, loose pants and a shirt soaked through with sweat. He whipped his shirt off and tossed it into the laundry hamper. _Good enough._

Adrien appeared in the doorway, mahogany hair dusted with snow. It didn’t snow often in Lyon, but when better for snow to fall than Christmas? Jonathan almost laughed. _Good gods, love has made me a sap._ Adrien smiled at him, bright and wide. He dropped his bag by the door, collapsing onto the bed face-first before turning around to look at him. 

“What have you been up to?” he asked. Something unwound in Jonathan’s chest at Adrien’s voice, at the warmth in his eyes. At the language that had never been used to trap him, or hurt him. 

“Just reading. Some working out.” 

Adrien’s smile widened at the last one, and he looked pointedly at his shirtless chest. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Adrien had never asked about the scars. Jonathan offered, sometimes, but Adrien never pushed. 

Jonathan gave him a playful shove, fighting an amused grin. Adrien caught his hand, lacing their fingers together and kissing the back of his hand. Jonathan’s ears burned. 

He shifted. “I should shower.”

Adrien made a noncommittal noise. “Or you could stay here, _mon renard._ With your very handsome boyfriend.” He shot him a million-watt smile. Jonathan raised an eyebrow at him, trying valiantly not to show how tempted he was to do exactly that. Adrien sighed, letting his hand go. “ _Alors, vas-y.”_ He made a shooing motion. “Go shower.”

Jonathan stuck his tongue out at Adrien, but the man had already closed his eyes. Pretending, for all intents and purposes, to be sleeping. As if. Adrien couldn’t sleep before midnight and woke at dawn. Jonathan wasn’t wholly convinced he was human.

But Raziel, Jonathan loved him.

Jonathan leaned over, kissing him on the temple. Adrien’s lips twitched. Jonathan pulled away, moving to grab clothes from the dresser. He paused in closing the dresser, catching sight of Adrien’s clothes tucked into the corner of the drawer. 

He’d been staying over more often, mostly because Jonathan had gotten soft, started saying foolish things like _it’s late, why don’t you stay?_ and _I don’t want you to go_ and _the bed’s big enough for us both_ and _it isn’t safe for you to go home alone, it’s dark out._ He’d gotten weak, he thought. It was still Valentine’s voice telling him that, though. It’d gotten easier, in the last few months, to ignore it. 

_There is nothing weak about loving someone,_ he reminded himself. 

He half-expected Adrien to slip into the shower (it’d hardly be the only time he’d done it), but he never did. Maybe he was genuinely tired. They’d started taking different shifts at the bookstore so someone could do chores and shit without any distractions. His lips twitched at the thought. Jonathan, distracting anyone. 

His mind drifted as he showered, the hot water lulling him into a sense of security. He’d always known he liked men, always suspected most boys didn’t look at other boys and think about how it’d feel to hold them close, to kiss them, to take them to bed. Living with Valentine hadn’t exactly invited experimentation, though. Bringing a boy home would’ve gotten him nothing but an extra beating. 

Living with Jace after Valentine’s death had been different. As Sebastian, with a flat more or less to himself, he’d been free to bring anyone home that he’d wanted to. Jace certainly hadn’t cared. 

It hadn’t been until earlier this year that he’d found a term that fit. Bisexual. Attraction to more than one gender, though it had always been men and women for him. It had made so much _sense._ He remembered nearly crying as he’d read the descriptions, thought, _I’m not broken, I’m not_ wrong, _this is a thing, this is a real thing, I’m not just indecisive, I’m not alone._ He remembered the relief.

He turned the water off as the water started cooling off. Dried off. Avoided looking in the mirror. The usual routine. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, he found the bed empty and the kitchen lights on. Adrien had garlic frying in a pan and a pot of something heating. An opened bottle of red wine sat on the counter; there was an almost-empty glass by Adrien’s elbow and a full glass by the bottle. 

Jonathan paused at the end of the hallway, towelling his hair dry and enjoying the view. Adrien’s hair was starting to curl from the snow, wild and frazzled. It was getting long, Jonathan thought absentmindedly. Long enough to brush the edges of Adrien’s jaw. Not that he minded. He didn’t think it was possible for Adrien to look anything but beautiful.

Jonathan looped the towel around his shoulders, stepping into the kitchen. He wrapped his arms around Adrien’s waist, burying his head in the crook of his boyfriend’s neck. Adrien chuckled softly, turning his head to kiss Jonathan on the top of the head. 

“What’re you making?” Jonathan asked, voice muffled. 

“It’s a surprise.” Jonathan lifted his head, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. Adrien grinned, cheeks flushed from the wine and the heat from the pan. “You’ll like this one. I promise.” He pecked him on the lips. “It’s the only thing I actually learned to make in my measly eighteen years living with my parents.”

“Mm.” Jonathan leaned in and captured Adrien’s lips. He looped his arms around Adrien’s neck, pulling him closer. Adrien’s hands settled around his waist. Adrien walked him backwards, pressing him against the refrigerator. Jonathan wrapped his arms around him tighter. _Don’t leave me,_ he thought suddenly, desperately. _I don’t know what I’d do if you left me alone—_

Adrien tasted like good wine and chocolate. Jonathan couldn’t get enough. He moaned as Adrien coaxed his lips open, unconsciously pressing closer. Adrien pulled him closer, hands sneaking under his shirt—

“Fuck!” Adrien jerked back abruptly, sprinting for the stove. “My garlic!”

Jonathan leaned back, slightly dazed and very offended. “The _garlic_ is more important than _me_?!”

“Shhhh.” Adrien tapped his nose. “Garlic and spices are _almost_ more important than the actual other ingredients of a dish. Bland food is almost as disappointing as the bookstore not having the last book of a series you’ve been waiting to finish for two years.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Every. Goddamn. Time.”

Jonathan didn’t bother fighting the helpless smile spreading over his face. “However can we make up for your terrible luck with bookstores?”

Adrien grinned. “I dunno, I met you at this one. I think that makes up for all the times they didn’t have my book in stock.”

Jonathan settled into a bar stool, propping his chin on a hand to watch Adrien work. Adrien really did have the most stunning eyes. Like sunlit amber, russet in the darkness and honey in the light. He could stare all day and he still wouldn’t be tired of searching for all the shades and depths they contained. 

“You’ve gone awfully quiet.”

 _You make my mind quiet,_ Jonathan thought, sipping his wine. _You almost make me forget why I’m afraid to look in a mirror, or go to sleep._ He reached for the bottle of red wine on the counter, pouring them both a generous glass. Wine for dinner, vodka for fun, whiskey for nightmares. He hadn’t needed the whiskey as much recently. 

“Just thinking,” he said, picking up his glass and Adrien’s phone. A few taps later, Billy Joel’s _Vienna_ started playing from tinny phone speakers. 

Adrien set the wooden spoon down, covering the pan, and spun to face Jonathan. He held out a hand, bowing at the waist like a medieval courtier.

“Milord?”

Jonathan laughed out loud, setting down his half-empty glass of wine.

“If you insist,” he says, demure, hopping lightly to his feet. He took Adrien’s hand and let Adrien pull him close. The familiar melody washed over them as Adrien’s arms settled around his waist, their home for three months now. Adrien looked up at him, expression soft. If Jonathan were more romantically inclined, he might even say Adrien’s expression was nearing reverent. They swayed to the beat, not quite dancing, just moving in time with one another. 

“ _Je t’adore,_ ” Adrien said, words echoing in the flat despite the quiet voice. “ _Je t’adore tellement."_

Jonathan ducked his head to press their foreheads together. “I know, _mon moitié.”_

The rest of the words sit on the tip of his tongue, almost bursting forth. _I love you, Adrien Blaise Fauré. I love you more than the sun loves the moon, and he dies nightly so that she may live._ He’d gladly die for Adrien, he realized. What a terrifying thought.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to. Maybe all of this, the flat, the music, the sickeningly soft domesticity—maybe he could have this, after all. 

The music twisted and twirled in the living room around them, the kitchen light the only illumination, as _Vienna_ became _Come Go with Me_. He was warm from the wine, warm from holding Adrien in his arms, warm from the hope he was barely allowing himself to feel. 

_All of this,_ he thought, laughing as Adrien tripped on an uneven floorboard, _and love, too._ He could have this. The Angel knew the world owed it to him, after all. 

**November 9, 2010**

“It’s all gone…” Rhiannon trails off, shock softening her voice. The ash around her shifts, as if blown by non-existent wind. Clary crouches beside her, Isabelle and Simon moving in her peripheral vision. There isn’t anything to look for. Anything to find. It’s all been burned. 

“You weren’t kidding when you said you’ve pissed people off, huh.” Isabelle’s heels crunch through the ash as she comes to stand in front of Rhiannon. Her voice lacks the animosity it’d had the night before. It’s setting in for all of them that Jonathan might really be in danger. That Rhiannon hadn’t been worried for no reason. “All of this...you made some powerful enemies.”

Rhiannon’s laugh is a broken humourless thing. “They brought a dead man back to life. Of course they’re powerful.”

“Found his weapons,” Jace calls from the back. Clary glances over to find him surveying an intact wall. Like the rest of the apartment, it’s smoking faintly. He whistles. “He’s got everything. Damn. Seraph blades, daggers, swords—is that a spear?”

“Is anything missing?” Simon asks, turning from a mostly-crumbled bookshelf. 

“Nope. All the things are filled.” Jace makes a clamping motion with his hands, not looking away from the weapons. “The rack things. Clamps. What are they called?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re just clamps,” Isabelle says. She’s taken up a post by broken marble. The pieces gleam despite the ash covering them. It would’ve been an expensive piece; Clary wonders where Jonathan would’ve gotten the money. Or maybe it’d been here when he got here. 

“He hasn’t been here, then.” Rhiannon’s voice is threaded through with relief. “He wasn’t— Alright, good, this is good, this is fine. Maybe—”

“What are all of you doing here?” Clary spins around at a surprised voice, almost tripping on debris. Catarina Loss stands in the doorway, taking in the scene. She’s breathing hard, as if she ran here. Rhiannon rises to her feet, shoulders going back as if preparing for a fight. “I saw the smoke—Where’s Jonathan?”

Clary stands up, dusting her hands off. “Is he supposed to be here?” 

“I thought the smoke…” She takes in their confused expressions. “He wasn’t the one who triggered the alarm, then.”

“Just because we burned down _one_ house doesn’t mean we’d burn them _all_ down.” Rhiannon’s voice is equal parts miffed and amused. “And what d’you mean, _triggered the alarm?”_

“You _burned down a house?”_ Isabelle demands as Simon says, “Holy shit, please tell me there’s a cool story behind that.”

Rhiannon straightens. “Wasn’t particularly cool, but we never got caught, so that was pretty cool.” She fixes Catarina with a look. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

Catarina shakes her head. “Not since August. He came once, without you or Adrien. Said he needed help setting up a kill switch of sorts for this apartment. Something that would destroy it if Valentine’s people found it. He said it would be safer that way, since he’d left some things here when he left, some important papers and documents. ”

Rhiannon nods like this all makes perfect sense, expression torn between relief and irritation. 

“You really met him?” Isabelle asks. 

“I did.” Catarina steps into the apartment, looking around with a mixture of curiosity and horror. “I helped him after they found him, once. If they’ve really gotten their hands on him…” She squares her shoulders. “Well. If they’ve really got him, we’ll all have bigger problems on our hands.” 

“Bigger than a Greater Demon?” Jace asks. 

Catarina smiles, shoulders relaxing a smidge. “Hopefully not that big.” She stops by Rhiannon. “Have you found anything of his to track him with?” 

Rhiannon shakes her head. “It shouldn’t be possible. None of his clothes work; they all lead back to Ad—to someone else. And the dishes don’t work. And his _books_ don’t even work, and he never went anywhere without a book.” She throws her hands up in frustration. “How is he _doing_ this? It’s like he dropped off the face of the earth.”

“That’s why you came to us,” Clary realizes. “Because when you said you couldn’t find him, you _really_ couldn’t find him.”

Rhiannon nods, cracking a knuckle absentmindedly. “Everyone’s heard about you and your magic runes, _lasta._ Figured I’d give them a try. Of course—” she scoffs— “of course the first place I try to find something for you to use is burned down. Just my _fucking_ luck.”

“There are spells to hide your location,” Catarina says thoughtfully. “Ones that don’t require warlocks or faeries to operate.”

Simon’s brows furrow in thought. “Would he have known them?” 

“Possibly.” Catarina gestures to the bookshelf. “He _did_ seem oddly interested in my books on locator spells.”

“He wanted us to hide,” Rhiannon says. Understanding dawns in her eyes. “He wanted to hide us with magic, like Valentine hid them both when he was growing up. He took one of your books,” she explains, taking in the question in Catarina’s eyes. “I remember it, a—I think it was blue?—but anyways, it was full of spells for hiding people and finding people and all that shite, and I remember—fuck, I should’ve made him tell me—I asked him where he’d gotten it and he wouldn’t say and—” 

She stops abruptly, the light fading in her eyes. Her expression goes blank. 

“And he took it with him.” Her voice is flat. “He took it with him when he vanished. I haven’t seen it since. We were using it to find Valentine’s people, but I looked for it when he first disappeared, and it was gone.” The air around her crackles, tenses like a rubber band pulled tight. Clary can read every emotion on her face—frustration, rage, irritation, worry. Rhiannon sighs, and the pressure releases. 

“A blue book?” Catarina’s eyes narrow in thought. “I can’t say I remember it.” A rueful smile flickers across her face. “That’s the problem with having too many books. You can’t always keep track of them all.”

“Don’t let Jonathan hear you saying that,” Rhiannon laughs, before adding, more somber, ”If we ever find him.”

Catarina’s lips twitch before her brows furrow again. “You know,” she said, “I still have that thank-you note from him. Maybe you could use that.”

Clary exchanges a look with the others. They have no other leads, no other ideas. Rhiannon studies Catarina with narrowed eyes, as if weighing the pros and cons of going instead of simply moving on to the next place. 

“Well,” she says finally. “What are we waiting for?”

**May 27, 2009**

The apartment was too quiet. Jonathan paused at the door, setting his bag down by the door and slipping a dagger out of his boot. Adrien should be home—he’d texted to say he was home—but there were none of the usual sounds. No pots banging, no footsteps, nothing. Jonathan’s heart picked up, ploddingly, like a reluctant runner at the start of a race. 

His first thought, upon seeing the scene awaiting him, was _it’s about bloody time._

The second is _Adrien._

Adrien was tied to a chair, hands behind his back, mouth gagged. His face was beginning to swell from bruises; there were cuts on his lip and nose and cheek. Blood stained his shirt. Rage crowded out Jonathan’s fear; the all-encompassing, once-familiar burn of it didn’t scare him as much as it probably should’ve. 

_I will make them_ bleed _for touching him,_ he seethed, hand tightening on the hilt of his knife as he turned to his unexpected visitors. The part of him that was still a little bit _him_ —Sebastian, the monster, the broken boy Valentine had moulded and shattered—pounded its encouragement, a drumbeat like a heartbeat. 

Four people—two warlocks judging by the tail and the claws, two ex-Shadowhunters judging from the weapons—stood in his living room. His books were scattered across the floor. The coffee table had been shoved aside, papers scattered around it. Coffee stained the rug where the mug had fallen, the colour like dried blood. Maybe that _was_ dried blood. Jonathan wasn’t completely sure. 

“Couldn’t have avoided the mess, could you?” he asked in English, gesturing to the chaos. His hands weren’t shaking, he was proud to note. It’d been quite a while. Hard to know how you’d react to this sort of thing, really. Your lover being beaten up and tied to a chair, for one. Your long-time enemies tracking you down, for another. 

One of the Shadowhunters, a woman, sneered. “Would’ve been a lot neater if you’d been here.” Jonathan doubted that. “Wasn’t too big a hardship, though.” She reached over and yanked Adrien’s head back by his hair. A whimper of pain escaped Adrien’s lips. Jonathan took a deep breath to stop himself from doing something rash. Like throwing one of his three knives at the Shadowhunter and losing it for good. She grinned at him, all teeth. “We had fun with this one.”

The monster roared. Jonathan tamped it down.

He had to be smart. He had to be _smart._ He couldn’t go into this half-cocked, or Adrien was going to get more injured than he already was. They wanted Jonathan, and only him. There were too many things for them to use against him here. Too many weapons, too many variables.

Jonathan spread his arms wide, dropped his knife. “I’m right here.”

They gave each other surprised looks. “You aren’t gonna try to fight?” a warlock asked, clearly startled. 

“Well, I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that you’ve got quite a valuable prisoner,” Jonathan drawled, heart trying to leap out of his throat. He rolled his shoulders back, releasing the tension building up, letting his shoulders slump as if defeated. It’d been so long since he’d been in any sort of battle. It took everything not to fidget, not to tense. 

He gave Adrien one last look as the warlocks grabbed his arms and dragged him out. Adrien was still unconscious, blood dripping sluggishly from a cut on his face. His head lolled. Jonathan turned back around, squared his shoulders. 

He waited until they reached an alley two blocks from the apartment. No mundane had noticed them—glamours, even in this part of the city, were impossible to see through. But he didn’t need anyone to notice. If anything, the invisibility would be terribly useful for what came next. 

The warlocks had loosened their grips when they’d figured out he wasn’t going to try to run. While they still held his forearms, they hadn’t felt the knives up his sleeves. The ones he’d been steadily loosening as they walked. 

They turned into an alley—Jonathan jerked his arms, freeing his knives—a warlock gave a shout of alarm—

And Jonathan sank the knives into the warlocks’ carotid arteries. 

He jerked back as they stumbled, ducking as a shuriken whipped past him. Warmth dribbled down his cheek as blood spilled from a cut. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. Shot the Shadowhunters a feral grin. 

_Come and get me,_ he thought, instinct taking over as he shifted into a fighting stance. The warlocks were staggering to their feet. _Well, we can’t have that, can we?_ Taking advantage of their distraction, he ran for the wall and jumped, using the wall to leap over the stumbling warlocks. Two more shuriken swept past him, one catching the side of his neck. Not deep enough to be trouble, thankfully. 

His feet hit the ground.

The Shadowhunters advanced. 

And he stopped thinking. 

Dodge. Parry. Stab. Dodge. Punch. Stab. Duck. Kick. There was a rhythm to it, impossible to forget. His lungs were on fire—he still trained regularly, but he’d been slacking off in favour of dates with Adrien or work or walks along the river. Idiot. Absolute idiot. 

One of the Shadowhunters slammed the hilt of his sword against Jonathan’s ribs. Stars burst in his vision. Distantly, he heard someone gasping for breath. His chest burned (broken rib, maybe; at least bruised). He switched his grip on a knife. Drove it out blindly. A choking sound told him he’d hit his mark. He pulled the knife out, grip slippery with blood. 

His vision had just cleared when fire exploded in his calf. His leg buckled. The remaining Shadowhunter advanced on him. The warlocks lay further back, blood pooling beneath one and the other slumped against a dumpster; the other Shadowhunter was struggling to stand, what with the gaping wound in his side. Jonathan fought back a smirk. 

The Shadowhunter spat blood onto the sidewalk, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes were aflame with rage and grudging respect. 

“Stronger than you look, huh?”

Jonathan bared his teeth at her. He still had one knife—he’d dropped the other. “You hurt my _amoureux_.”

She knelt in front of him. Just out of reach, he noticed smugly. She watched him warily, as one would a feral animal. _Good,_ he thought, _let them be worried. They_ should _be worried._ He was Jonathan fucking Morgenstern. They were not going to be the ones who walked out of this fight alive. 

Jonathan staggered to his feet, tightening his grip. His breath rattled in his lungs. Metal coated his tongue; he’d bitten the inside of his mouth at some point. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the pavement. Everything fucking _hurt._ He didn’t think fights had ever been this hard with demon blood. He pulled the knife out—it would bleed more this way, but it would cut less as he moved. 

The Shadowhunter stood with him, sword held out in front of her. Her expression was incredulous. 

“Why won’t you _die?”_ she snarled, raising her sword arm. 

Jonathan tried for a smirk, but it ended up more like a grimace. “I’ve been told I’m rather bad at that.”

The Shadowhunter lunged. Jonathan dodged, gritting his teeth against the fire licking up his leg. The sword narrowly missed him, passing close enough that he could see his reflection in the metal. He ducked as she spun around again. Rolled to get into her guard. Stabbed up—got blocked—leapt back—

The only sounds were the clangs of metal on metal and harsh breathing. The alley smelled like blood and diesel and garbage. 

_This needs to end,_ Jonathan thought. His body was heavy. Spots blinked in and out of his vision. 

Finally— _finally_ —she misstepped. A small thing. One foot out of place, right onto a pamphlet. It slipped—her arms went wide, just enough to expose her sternum—Jonathan lunged—

He gasped as her sword stabbed into his side, right as his knife went through her heart. He pulled it out, staggered back. Pressed a hand to his side. Blood pulsed from the wound, coating his hand in crimson. _Fuck._ The Shadowhunter fell to her knees. Her sword clattered to the pavement. 

“We won’t stop coming,” she said, voice strained. She fixed him with a triumphant look. “We know where you are now. We won’t—”

Jonathan knelt down beside her, wincing. “Where did you come from? Where are you based?” His voice bounced off the walls, amplified. 

She only grinned, teeth coated in red. “Long live the Righteous One,” she managed, voice thick from blood. Growling in frustration, Jonathan slit her throat and fell back on his ass. 

He needed to stand up. He couldn’t just _stay here_ with four corpses when the mundanes might alert authorities any minute now. The glamour wouldn’t last forever. He had to get up, had to get home, make sure Adrien was alright, make sure Rhi knew they’d been found—

Taking some deep breaths to steel himself, he steadied himself against a wall and pushed _up_ with his good leg. A scream bubbled up. He forced it down, teeth gritted, eyes watering. _You are Jonathan Morgenstern. You’ve been through literal Hell. You can walk two_ fucking _blocks to make sure Adrien’s alright._ He limped towards the mouth of the alley, hand pressed tight to his side. It wasn’t enough to staunch the blood flow, but he didn’t have anything else. 

No one gave him a second look as he staggered into the street. It seemed the glamour held, despite the warlocks’ deaths. He counted it as a blessing. 

One step. Two. Three. Four. _Count your breaths. Two. Three. Four._

He turned the corner—

And came face to face with a shocked Catarina Loss. 

**November 9, 2010**

Catarina’s apartment is a relatively spacious one-bedroom apartment, neat and lived-in with dishes in the sink and books and papers scattered everywhere. A pile of unopened mail sits on the kitchen counter. Catarina drops her keys in a dish and waves a hand, organizing the papers into something more presentable. 

“Make yourself comfortable. This might take a moment. I haven’t been here in a while.” She glances around, lips pursing in thought. “Maybe in the bedroom…” she mutters to herself. 

As Catarina busies herself looking for the note, Isabelle throws herself onto the couch. “So you can’t find him with your magic but you think Clary’ll be able to find him with her runes?” She raises an eyebrow at Rhiannon. “How does _that_ make sense?”

“Oh, _now_ things have to make sense to work? Didn’t the lot of you go into Hell on a whim to find Sebastian? And, oh yeah, didn’t you break into Hotel Dumort to rescue a mund—”

“How d’you _know_ about that?” Simon demands. 

Rhiannon waves her hand dismissively, causing a book to jump behind them. “You hear things. But that’s not the point.” She drops onto a couch, elbows braced on her knees. “The point is, things don’t always have to make complete sense to work. Besides, he’s a Shadowhunter, even if he doesn’t want to admit half the bloody time. Maybe the runes will work better than warlock magic.”

Clary’s brain catches on a particular phrase. “What d’you mean, he doesn’t want to admit he’s a Shadowhunter?”

Rhiannon flops back, staring at the ceiling. Irritation and fondness flicker across her expression. 

“He’s got a _thing_ against it. Like if he just doesn’t acknowledge it, Valentine’s people won’t be able to find him. Or if he just doesn’t say it, he can move on with his life and live like a mundane and be _happy_ or some bullshit like that.” She shakes her head. “Load of bollocks, if you ask me. They still found us. And he was still happy.” She paused, pain flashing in her eyes, there and gone. “At least, I thought he was.”

The words hang heavily in the quiet apartment. Clary thinks of her mother, of Jocelyn hiding her runes and her past and her marriage in a desperate bid to stay out of sight, out of mind. She wonders if Jonathan has taken after their mother more than she’d originally thought. But more than that, she wonders what Rhiannon means by _I thought he was._

“Ah, here it is.” Catarina steps back into the room, shoes clacking on the hardwood. In her hand is a piece of cream stationary. Jace, closest to the door she came through, takes it. His brow furrows. 

“His handwriting looks different.”

“Does it?” Simon leans over Jace’s shoulder to get a look. His eyebrows shoot up. “Why the hell does he have nicer writing than me? That isn’t fair!”

Isabelle throws a throw pillow at him. “Not important.”

Clary snorts, stepping closer to take a look. Apprehension ties knots in her stomach. This is it. The first piece of her brother as he is now, since the apartment was too burned to really count as a clue. She remembers reading somewhere that handwriting says a lot about a person. There’s a whole forensics thing studying it, she’s pretty sure. So this, seeing his writing—

She hesitates before reaching out to take it. It seems oddly like trespassing, somehow. Like a breach of privacy. 

“Clary?” Clary looks up to find Jace watching her. His eyes are warm, understanding. Of course. He gets it. He’d known Sebastian, too. Been tied to him. This couldn’t be any easier for him than it was for her. She takes a deep breath before holding out her hand. 

“Lemme see.”

Her brother’s writing is surprisingly messy, in an artful way. She remembers how Sebastian’s writing looked, all sharp edges and typical boyish messiness. The writing on the note is smaller, more cramped, but softer, somehow. Letters and words curve into one another; t’s and f’s swoop over and above. She isn’t sure what she was expecting, but this wasn’t it.

Aware that she’d been staring too long, she let out a breath. “Yeah. It _is_ nicer than Simon’s writing.”

“Hey!”

Clary holds her hands up in surrender. “Just saying!”

“D’you think it’ll work?” Eagerness coats every word as Rhiannon leans forward. She looks at Clary like someone who wants to be hopeful, but has had hope ripped from her enough times to know she shouldn’t be. It tugs at Clary’s heartstrings.

“Maybe,” she says. She meets Catarina’s eyes and sees her own misgivings reflected. Still, she pulls out her stele. Sketches a Tracking rune on the back of her left hand and closes her fist around the letter. Closes her eyes. 

Tracking runes usually let the Shadowhunter see where the person being tracked is, like watching a film. Clary waits for the familiar sensation to start, the sense of being here and elsewhere. 

_Maybe it just needs a moment,_ she thinks when nothing happens. 

“It didn’t work,” Rhiannon says, voice flat, when Clary opens her eyes moments later. Clary shakes her head, fighting the disappointment in her chest. She’d known it probably wouldn’t work. Yet she can’t deny part of her thought it would. Part of her had been ecstatic at the thought of catching a glimpse of her brother as he is now. 

“I’m sorry.”

Catarina sighs, leaning against the counter. “I wasn’t sure it would.” She looks over them, eyes clever and sympathetic. “If you’d like some help looking for him—”

Clary starts to agree, but Rhiannon shakes her head. “Not yet. You should stay here, I think.” A meaningful look passes between the warlocks. Vertigo takes over Clary, like she’s missed a step on the way down the stairs. They’re all on the back foot here, the Shadowhunters. Rhiannon knows the most out of all of them; they’re depending on her. Which means she can keep secrets without them knowing there’s anything to keep secret. The knowledge doesn’t sit well with her. 

_What if it’s a trap?_ a voice whispers. Clary shakes her head slightly, dislodging the thought. Paranoia, nothing more. 

Jace takes her hand, and she jumps at the touch. Without realizing it, she’d been tracing the writing on the note, the narrow letters and flowing words. 

_Where are you?_ she wonders, glancing out at the French streets outside. The sun reflects in the windows, paints the buildings gold. 

Catarina claps, the sound popping the silence like a balloon. “How about some lunch before you head on?”

It’s so much like something Luke would do that Clary almost laughs. Parent instincts. _Must feed teenagers,_ she thinks, lips twitching. 

“That...sounds amazing, actually.” Jace grins at Catarina. “Are you paying?”

Catarina rolls her eyes. “Of course I am.”

Simon cheers, and Clary tucks the note into her pocket. Later. They’ll figure this out later. For now, though, for now, she can enjoy lunch in a beautiful city with her friends. 

**May 27, 2009**

Catarina’s cup shattered. Jonathan tensed, stumbling back. 

The blood drained from her face. “How—?” 

Jonathan lifted his chin, trying for defiance. He wasn’t sure how effective it was, considering he was covered in blood and all manner of injury and bleeding out from a wound in his side. Not to mention he was leaning against a wall, legs shaking.

“Bit of a long story.” He nodded to the cup. “Might want to clean that up, Miss Loss.” 

The warlock’s eyes sharpened. She stood slowly, warily, as if she didn’t trust her legs to hold her weight.

“Your eyes aren’t black.” 

“Well spotted,” he said drily. The wall was blessedly cool against his back. Every breath sent a spike of pain through his chest. They’d gotten some good hits in, but they hadn’t expected him to be in shape. They hadn’t expected him to keep up training without Valentine and Shadowhunting. That’d been his one saving grace. 

When he’d come home and seen Adrien—

No. No, Rhi will have gone to check on them. She’d said she was coming over. She’d have found him, helped him— 

But if they’d gone back, if they’d sent someone else, Rhi wasn’t trained yet, didn’t have complete control over her magic—His chest tightened, panic swirling for the first time, a riptide pulling his feet out from beneath him. 

Jonathan flinched as Catarina set a hand on his arm to steady him. He hadn’t even realized he was listing to the right. Her face had lost most of the shock. There was still rage, but he’d expected that. Wariness, but he’d expected that, too. 

She sighed, pulling one of his arms over her shoulders. “You’d best tell me where you’re staying, Shadowhunter. I’ll need somewhere safe to heal you.” 

Jonathan laughed, more of a pained huff than anything. “Why bother? Just leave me here to die. I’m not even a Shadowhunter anymore, I’m just...” _Me,_ he thought, whatever the hell that meant. 

She gave him a sharp look. “I’m not in the business of leaving people to die.” 

“Even when the person in question is Valentine’s son?” 

She sighed again, this time more resigned than anything. “Even when the person in question is Valentine’s son.” 

They stumbled along the road like revellers after a drunken night out. No one gave them a second glance; Jonathan assumed Catarina had something to do with that.

“I’m not telling you where I live,” he said after a moment. He had enough of his wits about him to know _that_.

Catarina rolled her eyes. “Who, exactly, am I going to tell about this? The Clave?” Jonathan stiffened. “Relax. Warlock, remember? The Clave and I don’t exactly see eye to eye.” 

Jonathan stayed silent. Revenge was a lovely uniter of peoples; he didn’t particularly want to know whether that was true in this case. 

She led them down winding paths into a residential area not too far from Jonathan’s apartment. A few people milled around, mostly well-to-do folk who could afford to take time off in the middle of a Wednesday. Catarina nodded to the man in the lobby before stepping into the elevator. Jonathan itched to pull out his phone, text Adrien or Rhi, make sure they were alright. Instead, he slipped his hand in his pocket, hiding the shaking. 

Nerves wound him tighter and tighter even as blood loss weakened his grip on reality as the elevator went up, up, up. Warm, steady magic pulsed around him, taking a bit of weight off his legs. He thought, idly, that he should thank her. 

Catarina let them into her flat before half-dragging, half-leading him to the couch. He crashed into the cushions, a groan of pain sneaking past his lips. He blinked rapidly, trying desperately to hold onto consciousness. 

She came back with a first-aid kit, remarkably well-stocked. At his questioning glance, she offered a grim smile. 

“I’m a nurse,” she said by way of an answer before pausing in opening the kit. “Do you trust me?”

Jonathan laughed out loud, an ache that had nothing to do with physical injuries flaring in his chest. “I don’t trust anyone.”

Catarina’s expression softened. “I’m going to cut your shirt off. You might reopen smaller wounds if you try to take it off yourself. I’ll need you to let me near you with scissors.” He nodded, exhausted from fighting for consciousness. It wasn’t like he could do anything against her in his state. 

It took about an hour of silence for Catarina to heal him. She handed him a soft shirt and sweatpants to wear instead of his bloodstained clothing. He’d glared at the sweatpants when she’d first come back with them, but he admitted they were comfortable. He wouldn’t have fancied shimmying back into tight jeans. 

“So.” She gestured his battered—now mostly healed—body once she’d set down two mugs of tea. Handed him one. He wrapped his hands around the warm mug gratefully. “What happened?”

He groaned, hanging his head back. “I thought you were going to let that go.”

Catarina barked a laugh. “Patient confidentiality, Morgenstern. Get talking.”

The brisk efficiency was soothing. No bullshit. The fact that she hadn’t killed him and dumped his body in the Saône was a good sign. Sighing, he leaned back. Got comfortable. 

“Some people from Valentine’s old network found me.”

To her credit, her expression didn’t change. “Why were they looking for you?”

 _So they can kill me and bring him back,_ he thought. “Why does anyone want to find me?”

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Why do they want you dead?” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. Catarina didn’t move, just sipped her tea. He sighed again. 

“They blame me for his—” _continued—_ “death. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.” He gave her a wry smile, taking a sip of tea. “Truth so rarely has any bearing on how people act.”

“Did you actually die?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, Miss Loss, I died, I went to Hell, don’t worry. I got what was coming to me.”

“No, that’s not—How are you here?”

“A mistake,” he said simply. 

She watched him over the rim of her mug for another few moments, eyes keen. Jonathan fought the urge to shift uncomfortably. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she saw far more than he wanted her to. Eventually, she set her mug down. Leaned forwards. 

“If you need any help hiding, or running—”

“What? You’re offering?”

“I am, actually.”

He stared at her in shock. “ _Why?!”_

Catarina smiled faintly. “I’ve always liked second chances. I don’t want you to lose yours to bigots.”

“You don’t want me dead?”

“I healed you,” she pointed out.

“Maybe you’re just trying to gain my trust so you can more easily kill me in the future.” Catarina’s eyebrows shot up. “Alright, fine, it does seem unlikely, but it’s hardly _impossible._ ”

Catarina shook her head. “I’m not going to kill you. Nor am I going to tell the Clave that you’re alive. But if Valentine’s people know you’re here—”

“Don’t worry. I plan to leave as soon as I can.”

She nodded, expression grim. After a moment, she stood, picking up her mug. He straightened, starting to stand, but she aimed a look at him that said, rather clearly, _No._ Jonathan settled back, trying not to sulk. Judging by the amused twinkle in her eyes, he failed. 

“Rest a bit. Your body hasn’t caught up to the healing yet.” Gentler, she added, “I have wards up here. No one will hurt you here.” _But Adrien,_ he thought, panic sparking at the thought. Adrien, beautiful, _good_ Adrien—was he alright? Had Rhi found him yet?

“I have to go,” he said, standing. 

She read the resolve on his face and her shoulders slumped. “You hero types,” she muttered. He decided to let that slide, considering she _had_ healed him. “Be careful. If you need anything—”

The smile he offered her was more genuine than he’d expected. “I know. Thank you, Miss— Catarina. For—” he gestured to the clothes and the tea— “everything, I s’pose.”

Catarina shook her head when he tried to hand back the mug. “Keep it. I’ve got dozens. It’s chilly in the evening.”

He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. The casual kindness—when had he ever experienced that, outside of his relationship with Adrien? _Never,_ he thought. He’d never been the sort of person that invited kindness. 

“Thank you,” he said, more earnest than he’d ever sounded. She offered a soft smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and waved him out of her door. 

It was another six blocks to his flat. He’d finished the tea by the time he made it to the lobby and held the mug loosely in his grip. His shoulders straightened automatically, mind shifting back into fight mode. Just in case. 

He glanced out the window as he climbed the stairs. Outside, night had begun to fall, dusk painting the sky in swathes of violet and magenta. Warm gold streetlights shimmered, reflected in the river. He’d be sorry to leave, but he couldn’t afford to stay.

The flat door stood ajar, like someone had kicked it open and now it didn’t close fully anymore. He gripped the mug tighter. Stepped inside. 

Adrien and Rhiannon sat on the couch inside, surrounded by the wreckage of the fight. Adrien held a mug in white-knuckle grip; Rhiannon had an arm around his shoulders and was rubbing soothing circles on his back. Jonathan stopped short. 

Adrien was alright. Rhi was alright. They were _alright._ Relief threatened to level him.

Adrien noticed him first. He let out a choked sob at the sight of Jonathan, dropping his mug on the table and sprinting for him. Catarina’s mug bounced harmlessly off the hardwood as Jonathan threw his arms around Adrien, burying his face in the crook of Adrien’s neck. He revelled in his familiar scent of bergamot and pine. _He’s alright, he’s alright, he’s alright._ Jonathan wasn’t one for prayers, but he sent one up to anyone who might be listening, effusive thanks for keeping his Adrien safe, for keeping him alive. 

“You look like shit,” Jonathan said, settling into French, voice muffled against Adrien’s skin. Adrien’s arms tightened around him as he let out a sniffly laugh. 

“I was so worried—”

“I know.” Jonathan kissed his cheek, pulling back to rest his hands against Adrien’s chest. “I know.”

“We can’t stay,” Rhiannon said where she’d come up behind them. Her eyes were apologetic when Jonathan looked to her. “ _Tàbharadh_ , they know you’re here now.”

“I know.” He stepped back more, out of the circle of Adrien’s arms. “You should stay here,” he told Adrien. “It’ll be safer if you stay away from me now that they’re actively looking—”

“ _Conneries,”_ Adrien spat, surprisingly emphatic. “I’m coming with you, you idiot.”

“Adrien—”

“ _Non._ I want to stay with you. And if you don’t take me, I’ll just follow you.” His jaw was set in that stubborn expression he got whenever they got into arguments, no matter how trivial. His warm eyes were gold fire in the low lighting. Jonathan didn’t think he’d ever loved Adrien as much as he did in that moment. “I told you. I will not leave you. So don’t be a martyr and try to make me, _ouais?”_

Jonathan couldn’t help laughing, dragging a hand over his face. He should protest more, fight more. Adrien wouldn’t be safe with them. 

_He wasn’t safe here, either,_ he reminded himself. He looked at Adrien, at the determined set of his jaw, at the warm, familiar eyes, at the familiar face, and sighed. 

“Fine.” Adrien whooped, and Jonathan fought a smile. “Go. Ten minutes to get packed. Then we’re going.” As Adrien disappeared down the hall to pack, he turned to Rhi. “They’ll follow us anywhere.”

“I know.” Her eyes lacked their usual mischief. For the first time since he’d met her, she was completely serious. “We’ll put up wards in the next place.” 

He nodded. 

It was only a matter of time, after all. He’d been lucky to have as much time as he’d had. He let out a breath, rolled his shoulders back, and went to pack up his life for the first time in a year.


	3. Miss Me (In Your Bones)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabelle has an epiphany, Clary finds a notebook and Rhiannon turns out to be not so bad at comforting people, after all.
> 
> TW: alcohol, mentions of violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kudos and comments! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story so far. 
> 
> As always let me know if I missed any TWs that I should've included.
> 
> Chapter title from my tears ricochet by Taylor Swift
> 
> SONGS:  
> It Takes a Lot to Know a Man—Damien Rice

**November 9, 2010**

They go to Bucharest next. Once again, Clary makes the Portal that they all slip through. Rhiannon leads them through the streets without any hesitation, familiar with the area. Clary can’t stop tracing the note. 

She’d read it when the others walked in front of her. It’s simple, giving nothing away. Just _I’ve decided to move. Thank you for your help. —J_. Realistically, it told her nothing about the person her brother was. Is. She doesn’t want to think he might be dead. 

Rhiannon had mentioned she and Jonathan hadn’t been here long. Just long enough to stake out the place and kill the people, set up some wards at the safehouse. The casual mention of murder still troubles Clary, a reminder of the violence that’s still a part of their lives. 

“Breathe,” Simon whispers beside her as they approach the brownstone. Clary lets out a breath, lets the tension out of her shoulder. He gives her a small smile. She shakes her hands out, trying to work out the nerves. 

This place isn’t burned. Isn’t trashed. It’ll be exactly how they left it. Clary swallows bile, tries to calm her heart. It’s trying to sprint out of her chest. Simon gives her hand a squeeze. 

Rhiannon unlocks the door. “In we go,” she says, jerking her head towards it. 

It’s weird, to say the least. There are clear signs of habitation. A coffee mug sitting on the counter. Books piled on the coffee table. A whiteboard, now erased, with markers in a little bucket.

Clary only remembers two versions of her brother—the demon, and the repentant. From everything Rhiannon says, she doesn’t think either fit. The demon wouldn’t be in a happy, healthy relationship with anyone. The repentant wouldn’t go after the very people who are chasing him, like some sort of avenging angel hiding in the shadows. 

Would she even recognize him if she sees him in the street?

Rhiannon drags her fingers through the layer of dust like a ghost walking the house she’d once lived in. She raps the coffee table with her knuckles before looking up, shaking herself out of her musings.

The Shadowhunters fan out, looking for anything seemingly out of the ordinary. Or, that’s what the others are doing. Clary wanders around aimlessly, trying to take in as much as she can. The cupboard is stocked with all sorts of tea; the pantry still has cookies and granola bars and pasta. A notebook lies on the kitchen counter, buried beneath cookbooks. When she opens it, she finds it filled with one-liners and snippets of poetry and metaphor, all in her brother’s handwriting. 

“He wrote?” she asks, surprised. 

Rhiannon glances over, eyes catching on the notebook. She laughs out loud. 

“We wondered where that’d gone! Yeah, that’s his old one. He thought he’d lost it on the road or something.” She steps closer, plucking it out of Clary’s hands. “Never let us read it, the bastard. Adr—His boyfriend was so curious.” 

Clary files away the slip for later. Rhiannon has been tightlipped about any details about the little family her brother had found. Any bit of information is welcome. Clary starves for any bit of information, anything to flesh out her image of him.

Rhiannon stops on a specific page and huffs a laugh. “Fuck, I’d forgotten how angsty he was.” Her expression tightens. “Is.” 

She hands it back, tapping on a specific line. _We write images and memories, trap them in steel bars of broken pen nibs and cells of metaphors._ Clary’s lips twitch, even as she imagines him curled in an armchair with a pen and notebook. Remembers Sebastian claiming he’d inherited none of the artistic ability she and her mother had, and none of the musical ability Jace had. 

“Did he write a lot?”

Rhiannon shrugs, moving away. “Mostly on bad days. After nightmares, when he was anxious, when something had happened. Sometimes when he was particularly happy.”

Clary snaps it shut, suddenly uninterested in reading more. The notebook is his equivalent of her sketchbook—his heart, spelled out in ink and words. No wonder he never let anyone read it. She holds it to her chest, right by her heart. 

“Hey, does he drink?” Simon asks from across the room. Clary’s head snaps up to find Simon standing by a window. She follows Rhiannon over, still hugging the notebooks. The sill is wide enough for someone to sit on or, in this case, use as a table. 

A half-full bottle of scotch sits on the window-sill beside an empty whiskey glass. The cork hasn’t been pressed in fully, as if someone was only leaving for a moment and planned to pour another glass right away. Underneath the glass, thin paper acts as a coaster. Through the glass, the ink on it is distorted. Clary thinks it might be words, but she isn’t completely sure. The dust around both look disturbed, thinner than the dust covering all the other surfaces. The window is shut tight, so the disturbance couldn’t be from wind.

Jace reaches over Clary’s shoulder to pick up the paper. “It’s a receipt,” he says. His brow furrows as he reads. Clary absentmindedly reaches up to smooth the wrinkles. His eyes crinkle as he smiles at her, handing the receipt to Rhiannon. “Vienna. October 8.”

“This year?” Isabelle asks. 

“2010,” Rhiannon confirms. Barely concealed excitement seeps into her words. She points to the scotch. “That’s the same brand we had the night we decided to start going after them. This was a month ago. Holy shit, this was _one month ago,_ he was here, he was _here—”_

Her excitement is contagious. A grin spreads over Clary’s face. Beside them, Simon fights a smile; Jace leans back, looking unaffected, but his eyes sparkle. Only Isabelle is frowning, eyes distant. 

“We should stay here tonight,” is all she says, though.

Rhiannon nods, tucking the receipt into the breast pocket of her jacket. “Vienna tomorrow. I think we’ve still got some food here, lemme check.” 

As she runs off, Clary steps closer to Izzy. “You okay?”

Isabelle stares, sightless, out the window. “I don’t know if I actually wanna find him.”

Clary hops up onto the window-sill. “Me neither,” she admits. Izzy turns to her, eyebrows raising. Clary shrugs helplessly. “I don’t—I _killed_ him. Stabbed him through the heart. And Sebastian did so much…” She trails off, leaning down to hug her knees. “I don’t know what he’s gonna be like if we find him, and that—I don’t know how to feel about that.”

Isabelle nods, leaning back. She exhales slowly, leaning her head back against the wall. 

“I just want to look him in the eye. Just once. Maybe ask him _why_. I know he won’t be Sebastian,” she says when Clary opens her mouth to retort. “I just—Sebastian’s gone, so he’s all that’s left. And he’s gotta remember, right? Maybe, I dunno, maybe I can get some fucking closure.” She clears her throat as her voice starts to crack. Clary reaches over, squeezes her bicep. Izzy smiles, shaky. 

“Let’s just find him first, huh?”

Izzy chuckles, crossing her arms and turning to watch the other look for food. “Yeah.”

**June 2, 2009**

Jonathan and Rhiannon step off the train at Amsterdam, exhausted despite it being barely two in the afternoon. They moved like ghosts through the station, feet dragging and faces grim. The boy trailed behind them. 

His name was Alfie. He was nine, ran away from his house in downtown Bath, had no living relatives but for the ones he’d escaped, and he liked reading about magic. Rhiannon’s expression had softened visibly at that last one. 

He clung to Jonathan’s hand now, watching the platform around them with none of the wonder one would expect in a child so young. Instead, there was a shrewdness that reminded Jonathan, uncomfortably, of himself. A cataloguing of threats and exits. He tamped down the urge to pick the boy up and shield him from everyone else. 

He led Rhiannon up to the surface. The crowded street loosened a knot in his chest. It would be easier to lose anyone who’d tailed them. They’d burned the Manchester safehouse, taken a circuitous route south, but there was no guarantee they’d lost everyone. They’d killed the ones who’d confronted them, but who knew if there were others?

The Amsterdam safehouse was five blocks from the train station. Alfie held Jonathan’s hand in a grip that was almost painful, but Jonathan couldn’t bring himself to complain. He kept the boy close, glancing down every once in a while to make sure he was still there. Every time he did, he was struck again by how serious the kid looked. Lips turned down, eyes sharp and aware, shoulders tense. 

“Hey,” Jonathan said when they stopped at a crosswalk, squeezing the boy’s hand. Alfie glanced up, questioning. “What d’you want for dinner?”

Hope lit his eyes. “You’re not gonna give me away?”

Jonathan’s heart skipped a beat, and he worked to keep his expression neutral. “Of course not.” _Not anymore._ “Now. What d’you want?”

Alfie considered, lips pursed in an expression too old to sit properly on his face. “Pasta?” 

Despite the wariness in his voice, excitement brightened his blue eyes. He bounced on the balls of his feet as they waited, giving Jonathan a tentative, hopeful smile. Jonathan couldn’t help the huff of laughter that escaped him. 

He ruffled the kid’s hair. “Pasta it is.”

He caught Rhiannon’s grin before she turned away, coughing to hide her laughter. 

They stopped on the front doorstep and Jonathan crouched down to look Alfie in the eye. “There’s someone else inside, alright? He’s a good man. You can trust him.”

Suspicion darkened Alfie’s eyes. “Who is he?”

“My _amoureux_. Boyfriend.” Jonathan tensed, steeling himself for any number of remarks. Abusive households were generally not the most welcoming for queers. He braced himself for...anything, really.

But all Alfie asked, brows furrowed, was, “Boys can have boyfriends?”

Jonathan nodded, focusing on letting the tension out of his shoulders. “Yeah. And girls can have girlfriends, if they want. Or you don’t have to have girlfriends _or_ boyfriends.”

Alfie’s expression was thoughtful rather than judgemental, and Jonathan internally breathed a sigh of relief. He gave Rhiannon a nod, and she opened the door. 

Inside, it smelled like chocolate and raspberry jam. A quiet smile spread over Jonathan’s face. Adrien had taken up baking in the last couple months; they usually ended up bringing baked goods to work the next day. The knot in his chest unfurled at the familiar aroma. _Home,_ he thought. 

“Shoes off.” Alfie toed his shoes off and handed his coat to Rhiannon, who hung it on the hooks by the door. “Adrien! _On revient!_ ” 

Clanging resounded from the kitchen, followed by muffled curses. Rhiannon laughed, sauntering into the living area. Alfie trailed after her, steps hesitant.

“Burn yourself, did you?” Jonathan heard her ask, smug. 

“ _Vas te faire foutre,"_ Adrien said, voice strained. Moments later, he emerged in the hallway, and Jonathan’s breath caught. The evening light caught his hair, turned the brown to gold, turned his ochre skin to gold; his eyes were honey. Adrien’s returning smile was more relief than light, but something in Jonathan unwound at the sight all the same. He let Adrien pull him into a hug, let the tension leach from his shoulders, let himself breathe in deep as he held Adrien tightly. _Safe. He’s safe. He’s alright._

“Who’s the kid?” Adrien asked in his ear, in French. 

Jonathan’s smile softened. “Picked up a stray.”

Adrien pulled back, giving him a disapproving look. “That is _kidnapping,_ Jonathan.”

Jonathan waved away his concern, strolling into the kitchen to see what Adrien had baked today. “Semantics.”

Rhiannon had already cut a slice of cake and drizzled raspberry jam over it. She ate it with great relish, eyes closed as she hummed. Alfie had his own, smaller, slice, and ate at a far more sedate pace. Rhiannon held a plate out to Jonathan. He looked at it, hesitating. Valentine’s people had found them at Manchester before he could properly get resources from there, which meant they were one safehouse down. He should recheck the wards. Take inventory. Check the weapons. 

“Jonathan. Sit down.” Rhiannon cut him a slice and pushed the plate towards him. “Half an hour of a break is not going to kill you. It won’t kill us, either,” Rhiannon added when he opened his mouth to protest. “C’mon, _tàbharadh_.”

Adrien’s hand found its home at the small of his back. “You smell of smoke,” he said softly. 

“Ran into a bit of trouble.”

Adrien nodded, dropping a kiss on the juncture between his neck and his jaw, and let him go. Jonathan watched as he slung a towel over his shoulder and got to washing the dishes. Maybe he should help—

“Jonathan,” Rhiannon said, tone stern. He looked down to see Rhiannon and Alfie watching him, the former with a raised eyebrow and the latter with wariness. Sighing, he dropped onto a bar stool. 

“Half an hour,” he allowed. 

Rhiannon shot him a smirk. “That’s all I wanted.”

**November 9, 2010**

Clary hands the last dish to Simon, rolling her shoulders. She’d gotten used to having a dishwasher. Washing the dishes for five people by hand had _not_ been a fun experience. _Thank the Angel for modern appliances._ Simon closes the last cupboard, dropping the tea towel onto the counter. 

“That was,” he says, “a _lot_ of dishes.”

Clary laughs, more quietly than usual. She drops her own towel onto the counter beside his. 

“I’m gonna see if the others want something to drink.”

“We _just_ washed the dishes.”

“We’ll make them wash the cups themselves if they want something.”

“Fair.” Simon follows her out of the kitchen, pausing to close the lights. She steps into the living room to ask Isabelle and Rhiannon while Simon moves past her to ask Jace. The sight that greets her brings her up short. 

They’re sitting by the window, facing out. Isabelle is sprawled out in an armchair; Rhiannon sits on the window-sill with one leg drawn up. 

“—to help him,” Isabelle is saying. Clary freezes with one foot in the room. She retreats, pressing her back to a wall and glancing at the reflection in the mirror in the entryway. Through it, she can see the women without being seen. Sneaky, but she doesn’t want to interrupt this.

Rhiannon leans her head back against the window, the streetlight casting her face in sharp relief. The blue in her hair is less vibrant at night, less shocking. Her horns clack against the wood. 

“He isn’t who you remember.” The warlock’s voice is surprisingly gentle. “Look, I won’t lie to you. I won’t tell you he’s good, or a saint, or anything. There was too much done to him and too little time given to him for him to be completely different from who Valentine Morgenstern raised. But he’s a better man than you think. And he’s trying to be better.” 

A beat passes before Isabelle says, “He killed my brother.” 

Rhiannon shrugs. “Maybe. But he also didn’t. He’s not—You hate him because of what Sebastian did to you, but that’s all he was for most of his life. All he knew. He’s so goddamned scared of being like Sebastian, it’s ridiculous. You bring that bastard up and he gets this stupid tortured look on his face.” When Isabelle doesn’t reply, Rhiannon sighs. She runs a hand through her hair, strands of it snagging on her horns. “He’s a proud, self-sacrificing idiot. He isn’t going to apologize when we find him, and he isn’t going to ask you to forgive him. But Adrien says he wakes up screaming from memories of Sebastian, used to stay up all night just so he wouldn’t have to relive all that death. He isn’t who you think.”

Isabelle is quiet, eyes on the city outside. The sounds of traffic steals in through the slightly-open window. Clary wonders what it’s like to be Isabelle. To have been the one to find Max, to blame herself for that death for so long, to have any chance at revenge taken away. And then to find out a version of her brother’s murderer is out in the world, missing and on the loose. She can’t begin to imagine how impossible it would be to see past that. 

“What _is_ he like now?”

Rhiannon turns her head to look at Isabelle. “What was he like before?”

Izzy snorts. “Evil.”

“There’re a lot of ways to be evil. ‘Fraid you’re gonna have to be a bit more specific there.”

Isabelle throws her hands up. “I dunno, charming, manipulative, violent, angry, smug—”

“He’s still angry and smug,” Rhiannon interrupts. “Not really manipulative. Or charming—he’s kind of awkward, actually. In an endearing way. Not really violent, either. Unless murder counts, but if it does, then I’m violent, too. Adrien, too, I guess. We’ve all got blood on our hands.”

_Adrien_ . Clary assumes that that’s the boyfriend. She stores the name away, holds it up to the light like a rare specimen collected at midnight. _Adrien._

“And he talked you into helping him, didn’t he.”

Rhiannon laughed, the sharp staccato of it reverberating in the silence. “ _We_ talked _him_ into it, actually. He wanted to keep hiding, like I told Catarina.”

Isabelle’s mouth drops open. “ _No._ ”

“Yeah. He figured our best shot was to lay low. It was my idea to go after them, actually. Adrien wanted to go to the Clave.”

“ _That_ would’ve gotten over well.” 

Rhiannon snorts. “They would’ve clapped him in irons and shipped him to Idris.” A pause. “Still might, actually. You lot didn’t tell anyone, did you? About this?”

“No.”

“Good.” Rhiannon nods, once. In the ensuing silence, Clary almost steps into the room to ask about drinks. 

“Is he worth saving?” Isabelle asks, sounding all of eighteen, suddenly, and not a moment over. Clary remembers Izzy sitting on the windowsill in Amatis’ house after the War, trying not to cry over Simon. Remembers so many moments where she had been fierce, and vulnerable, and unapologetic. “Jonathan?”

Rhiannon hesitates. “That’s not—No one can decide that for you. He is, to me. But that doesn’t mean he is to you.”

Isabelle nods, looking down at the table. Her hands worry the wood. Taking that as her cue, Clary steps into the room, careful to make noise. The women look over, startled. 

“You guys want anything to drink?” Her voice is too bright, but Clary can’t help it. 

Rhiannon unfolds herself from the windowsill. “I’ll get it. I know where everything is, anyways.”

Clary and Isabelle study each other from across the room as the warlock leaves, neither moving a muscle. Finally, Isabelle sighs. 

“I’m still gonna punch him in his stupid face when we find him.”

Clary laughs, startled and pleased by the admission. “You go right ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

**June 2, 2009**

“We can’t avoid them forever.”

Jonathan pointedly ignored Rhi, setting the plate on the dish rack. They’d put Alfie to bed like responsible adults, though the only one with any experience with children was Adrien. He had dozens of younger cousins, apparently. Thank goodness for it. Jonathan didn’t know the first thing about children. He’d just known he couldn’t let Alfie go back to wherever he’d come from.

“The Clave, then?” Adrien suggested. “Perhaps they can help us.”

She snorted. “The Clave would sooner kill him than help him. He’s supposed to be dead, remember?”

“Yes, but—” Adrien broke off. “Hm.”

“We’ll keep our head down,” Jonathan said before she could suggest some harebrained scheme that would get them all killed. He’d seen the gleam in her eyes on their way back to Amsterdam. The one she got when she wanted to fuck shit up. “We stay out of sight, don’t draw their attention, and we’ll be fine. I’ve got Catarina’s book—”

Rhi glanced up, wary. “What book?” 

“Locator spells, spells for hiding locations, all that shite. The point is, we have a warlock—” he gestured to Rhi— “and we have me, who’s stubborn enough to make anything work. We could just hide.”

“Yeah, ‘cos that worked _so_ well the last time,” Rhi snipped. 

Jonathan’s grip on the towel tightened, rage rushing through him like a tidal wave, there and gone and destructive. It was always worse when he was anxious, the rage. He closed his eyes, forced his mind away from Adrien’s bloody body, from the fire ravaging the Manchester safehouse, from the closet-bedroom he’d been locked in for a month. _Breathe. Count your breaths._

After a moment, Rhi sighed. “Sorry. But you have to admit—Ow!” He turned to see her glaring at Adrien, whose own expression was none too pleased. Rhiannon was rubbing her shin. “I was _saying,_ you have to admit they managed to find you even with you hiding. And now they know about Adrien, which means they can watch for both of you, not just one of you. You can’t just never go out, or never work.”

“So, what? You want to charge them? You want to go after them like a hero, take down the bad guys? You know what happens to the good guys? They fucking _die,_ alright? Heroes don’t get happy endings—”

“Your sister did.” 

Jonathan froze. Rhi lifted her chin, refusing to back down. 

Adrien let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Rhiannon.”

Rhi took a deep breath. “Look. They’re going to keep coming. It’s either let them keep coming and we keep playing defense, or we go after them and switch it up. They’re expecting you to hide, _tàbharadh._ They’re _hunting_ us! That’s what all this is, this—this—this _cat and mouse_ they’re playing! They knew we’d be in Manchester, which means they probably know where at least _some_ of the safehouses are. Honestly. Do you _want_ to be hiding forever?”

Jonathan drew himself up to his full height, all one hundred eighty-five centimetres of it. “What I _want_ is for my friends to live, thanks.” He took care to set the towel down gently. His hands were shaking, violent shakes that he couldn’t stop if he tried. The breathing exercises weren’t helping, not as much as they usually did. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he added, terse, “I’ll be turning in for tonight.”

“Jonathan—” Adrien started, but Jonathan shook his head. Adrien fell silent, sorrow lining his expression. Jonathan refused to feel guilty about causing it. _It’s for the better if he thinks I’m an arse, anyways._ It might keep him alive longer. 

Once alone in the bedroom, he half-fell onto the bed. His breath came in short pants. His hands were shaking, shaking, shaking—he tightened them into fists, pressed them into the duvet. 

_How does this make you better than him?_ a voice whispered. _All that rage, all that fear—How does this make you better than Sebastian?_

He curled in on himself. Buried his head in his hands. 

He’d thought about it before. Cutting Valentine’s people off at their roots, cutting their communication, stopping them before they had a chance to send worse than a few bumbling novices after him. He looked down at the Voyance rune on his right hand, black lines stark against his pale skin, blurring from how badly his hand was shaking. 

The Clave wouldn’t want anything to do with him. Green eyes or black, he was Valentine’s son through and through. Or maybe he was more Jocelyn’s now. Running and running and running in circles, only to get caught up in the exact trap he’d escaped before. 

A grim smile pulled at the cut on his cheek. Clary had gotten the best of their parents. He had gotten their worst. Cowardice, rage, selfishness—if you took away his flaws, how much of him would be left? 

How much of him was left? 

His eyes drifted shut as the memory of Edom drifted in like a ghost. It had hurt, of course; being burned alive had hurt, but he had been burning since the day he was born. It had burned like good vodka, like sitting too close to a fireplace, like standing too close to the sun. Icarus, and all the attendant failings. 

“Mr. Morgenstern?” His eyes snapped open at the hesitant voice. Alfie stood in the door, wringing the sleeves of his too-big shirt to death. It was Adrien’s, Jonathan thought. The shirt. His shoulders were tense. Ready to run. 

_Oh, child._ _I wish I could tell you running accomplishes anything. I wish I could tell you running gives you the freedom you want._

Jonathan sat up, bracing his hands behind him. He focused on regulating his breathing. He didn’t need to spook Alfie. He could get himself together for a bit.

“Jonathan is fine.” 

Mr. Morgenstern lent him an air of respectability that he most definitely hadn’t earned. One he wasn’t sure anyone in his family had earned. 

_If you could see me now, Mother._ _A dead man walking and a trio of fools following him to their graves._

“Why aren’t you in bed?” Jonathan asked, making an effort to soften his voice. It still had an edge to it, a wildness, and he winced internally. Alfie didn’t seem to mind, though. He loitered in the doorway, twisting the sleeves around and around. 

“Nightmares.”

“Oh.” Nightmares, Jonathan understood. He shifted on the bed, making space beside him. He pat the side closer to the pillows. “C’mere. Know any good stories?”

Alfie shook his head, stepping inside warily. When Jonathan didn’t move, didn’t do anything at all, he hurried over and hopped onto the bed. He crossed his legs under him, looking up at Jonathan. 

Jonathan leaned back against a bedpost. “Well, then. How lucky for you that I know _hundreds.”_

Alfie looked skeptical. “No one knows _hundreds_ of stories. There isn’t enough room.”

“Says who?” Jonathan said airily. To his relief, his voice sounded far more normal. His hands were still shaking, he still had a bit of trouble breathing, but it was better. Getting better. Alfie just raised his eyebrows at Jonathan. “Alright, well—” he sniffed haughtily— “since you were so rude, you don’t get to pick the story.”

Alfie rolled his eyes, and Jonathan almost smiled. 

“Now. Tuck in.” Jonathan patted the duvet again, watching Alfie evenly. 

He had _no_ idea what he was doing. But it seemed to be working. Alfie wriggled under the covers, pulling it up to his chin, and watched Jonathan expectantly. Jonathan leaned forwards, bracing his elbows on his knees. “How would you like to hear about the Devil with Three Golden Hairs?”

**November 9, 2010**

“What d’you think he’ll be like?” Clary asks as she and Jace are getting ready for bed, flopping onto her back with a muffled _fwump_. 

Jace pauses in removing his boots. That’s something that’s changed over the years; he’s less restless, less sharp, more thoughtful. Clary’s glad. It means he’s let go of some of the pain. 

Eventually, he says, “Sebastian was lonely. Right? That’s what you said. That he didn’t want to rule alone because he was lonely, and unloved, and he wanted to be loved but didn’t know how to earn it.” 

He tugs off the boot, lying back on the bed beside her. “I don’t think that goes away,” he says to the ceiling. “Valentine—he was good at making you think being attached to anyone is a weakness. And he was good at keeping you from getting attached to anything, and keeping anyone from getting attached to you. Look at me—” a wry grin—”I didn’t think I belonged anywhere, with anyone, until you came around and knocked some sense into me, and he let me go when I was ten. Sebastian— Jonathan—was stuck with him for seventeen years.” His expression darkens, a mix of pity and terrible understanding. “Makes you wonder if he even wants to be found.” 

Clary freezes in the midst of sitting up. “What d’you mean?” 

“Well, think about it.” Jace props himself up on his elbows. “If most of the memories you have are of you hurting people, and Valentine spent years telling you you weren’t good for anyone, and people are trying to get to you, wouldn’t you want to get as far from everyone you care about as you could? I tried to distance myself from you when I was scared of hurting you, of being the reason you got hurt. What if that’s why he’s missing?” 

“You think he ran.” 

Jace shrugs, a little helplessly, falling back again. “I don’t know what to think. Rhiannon’s the only one of us who knows him at all, and _she_ doesn’t know what to think.”

Clary sits up, mulling it over. It makes sense, in a depressing way. Rhiannon had called him a proud, self-sacrificing idiot. And she could see the reasoning behind it. If Valentine’s people are after him specifically, leaving would make sure they wouldn’t look twice at Adrien and Rhiannon. And the kid. 

But she can’t believe he’d do that. It doesn’t seem right, somehow, even though she knows nothing about him. She thinks of the notebook burning a hole in her jacket pocket. She’d read more of it, sneaking snippets of it between moments as if it were contraband. It hurt to read, to see all his emotions laid bare in their rawest forms. All his hope, all his pain, his fear, all those things she doesn’t think he ever told anyone, not even his boyfriend—

It doesn’t fit. Someone who writes about the magic of music on walks and snow and sunlight slanting through windows is not someone who runs away from the people who help him to see that magic. 

But it doesn’t rule the option out, either. 

“Don’t you think he would’ve come back?” she asks. “If he ran. From what I—what Rhiannon’s told us, don’t you think he would’ve gone back to them by now?”

“Not if something went wrong.” Jace sighs, carding a hand through his hair. “He might’ve run at first, but...I dunno. That fire, in Lyon, if he really set it all to burn if Valentine’s people went there... “ He trails off, but Clary picks up his train of thought with ease. 

“Something went wrong.” Realization dawns on her. “Oh, Raziel, they found him. Valentine’s people. He fucked up somehow and they got him before he could get them—”

“We don’t know that,” Jace interrupts. Softly, but firmly. He traces reassuring circles on the small of her back. “He might be okay. The fire might’ve been to scare him, or to smoke him out, or something. It doesn’t mean they got him.” She looks over her shoulder, unimpressed. Jace manages a small smile. “It was worth a try.”

Clary settles back, tucking her back against Jace. Rhiannon had been desperate enough to go to the Clave, even knowing that they wouldn’t react favourably to the news that Jonathan Morgenstern was alive (again). Is this what Rhiannon thinks, too? 

_Oh, Jonathan._ _What on earth have you gotten yourself into?_

**June 2, 2009**

Jonathan left Alfie sound asleep and crept out into the living room. He’d fallen asleep three stories in, but Jonathan hadn’t wanted to leave him until he was sure the nightmares wouldn’t come back. He knew how awful they could be. 

Adrien and Rhi sat across from each other in the living room, a loaded silence between them. Judging by the set of Adrien’s jaw, they’d been arguing. Adrien looked up as Jonathan came in, perking up slightly. Jonathan’s lips curved up at the sight. 

He nestled gratefully against Adrien’s side, head on his shoulder, Adrien’s arm around him. Rhi watched him evenly, silent. Eventually, she sighed, reaching behind her. She reemerged with a bottle of scotch and poured all three of them generous glasses. Jonathan sat up to get his, Adrien’s arm falling to his waist.

“To bastards and bitches,” she said, raising her glass. Her horns gleamed in the light as she sat up straighter. 

Adrien chuckled. “To idiots and idiocy.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, sipping his drink. “You’re both ridiculous.”

“So you’ve said,” Rhi said drily. “Many times.”

They faded into a silence slightly less charged than before. Jonathan stared down at his drink, mind wandering to the boy sleeping in their master bedroom and the safehouses they’d abandoned. He and Valentine had had plenty of safehouses on the continent, but they weren’t inexhaustible. Rhi wasn’t wrong about that. There were only so many they could go through. And Alfie needed stability. He was pretty sure that was a thing kids needed. Stability, security, schooling. Just thinking about it exhausted him. 

He took another sip. 

“I’ll do it,” Jonathan said (in English, for Rhi’s benefit), breaking the silence. He stared down at his drink. “Preemptive strikes, and all that.” He looked up at the others. “Rhi’s right. We can’t keep waiting for them to come to us.” 

Adrien gave him a soft, sad smile. He didn’t seem surprised.

Instead, he took Jonathan’s hand. “We’ll help you.” 

Jonathan raised an eyebrow at him. “With what? Your archaeology degree?” 

Adrien smacked him on the arm. “Don’t be an ass. I’ve got a working brain. You and Rhi can get your information, and I can help you two put things together and find them.” 

He should say no. Should tell Adrien to take Alfie and go home, get away. _This is not going to end well_ , he thought, looking into Adrien’s amber-warm eyes. 

_But it_ is _going to end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come shout at me on [tumblr](https://aceass1n.tumblr.com/)!


	4. History Throws Its Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vignettes from a life and a chase
> 
> Make sure you pay attention to the dates this time; it'll get pretty confusing otherwise :)
> 
> TW: panic attack, PTSD, alcohol, smut (? idk if it's graphic enough to count, but it's there)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from little beast by Richard Siken
> 
> SONGS:  
> 'tis the damn season—Taylor Swift

**November 10, 2010**

In Vienna, Isabelle found a postcard from Berlin, dated to October 10, 2010. In Berlin, Rhiannon found a ticket stub for a play in Athens on October 11, 2010. They’re in Athens now, and everyone buzzes with nervous energy. 

_We’re close,_ Clary thinks, equal parts terrified and ecstatic. She stands in the centre of a hotel room, checked under _Evan Loran._

“He goes by Evan Loran to anyone who isn’t Adrien or me or Alfie,” Rhiannon said when Simon asked earlier. “Safer that way.”

So many precautions, and they still found him in the end. Clary is starting to feel far more sympathetic to her mother’s plight, all those years of hiding from Valentine. She’s also starting to think it was a lost cause to begin with. Not that she’s upset with her mother for leaving. She doesn’t even want to _begin_ to imagine what it would’ve been like to grow up under Valentine. 

“Aha!” Simon shouts. “Found it!”

Clary spins around to find him holding something triumphantly. She can’t tell what it is from across the room. Isabelle, closest to Simon, snatches it up. Isabelle, too, has changed, taken on the frenetic energy the others have. She still doesn’t care as much about whether they’ll find Jonathan intact or not, but at least she cares about finding him now. 

“What is this?” Isabelle’s asking when Clary reaches them. 

Clary laughs out loud when she sees it. “Chocolate wrapper!” The writing on it is in an unfamiliar language. She hands it to Jace, who squints at it. 

“I think that’s Czech.”

“Would it really be something that obscure? I mean, the last few were obvious.”

“Wait, where did you find this?” Clary asks right as Rhiannon says, “I’ll check the pantry.” They give each other a glance before Rhiannon shrugs, moving to the pantry. 

Isabelle and Simon find wine from Prague. Rhiannon finds chocolate. Clary opens the Portal, and off they go again. 

**September 2009**

The nightmares were back. 

Jonathan stared down at the sink, at the water gurgling down the drain. _Waste of water,_ he thought, but couldn’t bring himself to turn off the sink. Rhiannon was off gathering information; Adrien was dropping Alfie off at the school they’d enrolled him in; the apartment, without the water running, was silent as a tomb. 

Jonathan hated it. 

He took a shuddering breath, and squeezed his eyes shut. He’d thought that, maybe, just maybe, the nightmares would fade properly. That they _had_ been fading, that one day, they’d be gone completely. 

He’d been so bloody naive. 

The water kept burbling. 

Blood, and sulfur, and skin peeling off bones and carrion birds pick-pick-picking at Adrien’s eyes and Rhi’s horns sheared in half—

He opened his eyes, slammed the water off with a gasp. His hands twitched with the urge to trace the scar on his shoulder, a nervous habit that’d started after Valentine’s people had found them in Lyon. He caught his reflection with its black black eyes and fell back and _fuck he couldn’t breathe_ —

“Jonathan?” _I’m having a panic attack,_ Jonathan thought vaguely. The tiles were cold beneath his hands. He couldn’t remember falling. His breath came in small gasps. “Jonathan? Fuck, _fuck,_ alright, uh, Jonathan, listen to me. Look at me.” Adrien’s face came into view, worried eyes at odds with the forced calm in his expression. French washed over him like a gentle tide. “Jonathan, _mon renard,_ you need to breathe.” 

Breathe? His chest was collapsing in on itself like a pocket universe, his lungs were empty and full and he was vaguely aware that he was gasping but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t think of anything but _what if they find Alfie? What if they find us what if they retaliate what if what if what if—_

Adrien grabbed his hand, pressed it to Adrien’s chest, right over his heart. Leaned in until Jonathan couldn’t see anything but him. Close enough for his breath to skate across Jonathan’s cheeks. 

“Breathe with me, darling, breathe, that’s it, deep breath in, _deux, trois, quatre_ —” He counted slowly, evenly, all the way to six, modelling the breathing despite his racing heart. “Out, _deux_ , _trois, quatre, cinq, six—”_ Jonathan clutched Adrien’s shirt in a silent plea not to let go. Adrien kissed the back of his hand, soft curls brushing Jonathan’s forehead when he bent his head. “In, _deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six—”_

Jonathan swallowed hard, breath shaking, hands shaking, world shaking. Sunlight slanted through the window by the shower— _five things you can see, Jonathan, come on, breathe—_ sunlight and Adrien and the sink and the tiles—

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, breathing in sync. Adrien’s knees had to hurt from kneeling on tile, but he didn’t complain, only helped Jonathan up after and wrapped his arms around him. 

“I thought they’d stopped,” Jonathan whispered as they made their way to the living room, voice hoarse. 

Adrien’s eyes were somber. “I don’t think they’ll ever stop. They’ll only come less frequently.”

Jonathan took a shaky breath, leaning more fully on Adrien. He was solid at Jonathan’s side, unshakeable, steady. Warm. _He’s alive. They’re all alive._

“I can’t be the reason you die.”

Adrien flopped onto the couch, pulling Jonathan down on top of him and wrapping his arms around him again. 

“Who says I’ll die?” he asked, cheeky. 

“Adrien.”

“No, but seriously. Hey, look at me.” Jonathan lifted his head, propped his chin up on Adrien’s sternum. Adrien looked down at him with a furrow between his brows, uncharacteristically serious. “I know you’re afraid. We all are, we’re not _stupid._ Rhi and I know how dangerous this is. But you aren’t forcing us into anything. We’re choosing to help you. We’re choosing not to let them win. If anything happens to us, it will be because _we_ chose to do this, not because you coerced us into it.” A sad smile curls his lips. “You carry so much guilt in you, _étoile._ You’re allowed to put some of it down.”

Jonathan’s chest tightened, but not like it had in the bathroom. He blinked rapidly against the burning in his eyes. Buried his face against the crook of Adrien’s neck and remembered to breathe. 

_Where do I put it down?_ he wanted to ask. _What will be left of me, if I take away the guilt and the pain?_

They stayed there in silence, Adrien running his fingers through Jonathan’s hair, Jonathan slowly and steadily getting his breathing and heart rate under control. The proximity helped; hearing Adrien’s heartbeat helped. Adrien helped, as a whole, really. 

“Nothing is going to happen to us, _mon renard_ ,” Adrien whispered eventually. Jonathan suspected he thought Jonathan had fallen asleep. “No one else is going to die but who we decide. I swear it on the stars and the sea.”

**November 10, 2010**

Prague, Czech Republic. A swanky hotel and another bottle of wine.

Zurich, Switzerland. A studio apartment and postcards from Bratislava.

**October 2009**

Edinburgh, Scotland.

“We sure they’re here?” Rhi said, watching the building from the alley. 

“Positive,” Adrien confirmed. 

Jonathan palmed his knives. “In we go, then.”

Three down. Moving on.

**November 11, 2010**

Clary’s exhausted, running on caffeine and adrenaline, and both are starting to wear off. They’d slept in shifts, someone always looking for clues while everyone else rested. 

October 13, 16, 17, 20—with every date they find, Clary’s heart races a little quicker, like a horse barely kept from a gallop. The last lap. The final turn around the track. 

Recently she’s let herself imagine finding him. They’d found some pictures in other safehouses, ones Rhiannon dug up from who knows where while they took a brief break. Without the demon blood, with softer angles, there’s something almost androgynous about him. He’s beautiful, with high cheekbones and dark green eyes. He reminds her of their mother, instead of Valentine. Something about the way he holds himself, the shape of his eyes, the elegant hands. 

She imagines finding him alive and whole. She imagines finding him dead in an alley. She imagines finding him bleeding and covered in someone else’s blood. She imagines every possible scenario, but she doesn’t let herself consider the one where he agrees to come home with her to see their parents. 

Well. Their mother. Luke might be a father to Clary, but he’s a stranger to Jonathan. The thought sends a pang of not-quite-regret through her. Longing, maybe. For the family they could’ve been. 

She knows now that he’s clever, and cunning, and cries when book characters die (Rhiannon told her, over a glass of wine, how he’d been inconsolable after reading _Giovanni’s Room_ ). She knows he takes his tea with honey and a splash of milk, and that he hates oysters for reasons unknown. She knows he loves exactly three people—Adrien, Rhiannon and the kid, whose name she still doesn’t know. 

She also knows, without a doubt, that he thinks he’s to blame for every single thing Sebastian did. 

“We’re gonna find him,” Jace says once with a smirk, holding up an envelope sent from Liverpool, dated October 22. There’s a pinch of triumph in his voice, a note of confidence. Rhiannon’s almost always fighting a smile these days, and Simon’s bouncing off the walls. 

**November 2009**

Sofia, Bulgaria. Cologne, Germany. Leiria, Portugal. 

Ten, twenty, twenty-five down. Jonathan burned the notes the moment they were done, fighting a triumphant smirk. Always taking something to track the rest down.

“We’re gonna get them,” he whispered to Adrien at night, bare bodies twined together like rope. “We’re gonna stop them.”

**November 11, 2010**

Liverpool. Paris. Munich, before they have to call it a day and take a break. Clary doesn’t think she’s ever been through as many Portals in a day as she has in the last three. Are there long-term consequences for extended Portal use? She should check when they get back. 

Rhiannon kicks the back of Simon’s chair. “Pass me the food, would you? I’m bloody starving.”

Simon rolls his eyes, but passes the food. 

“Right,” Rhiannon says after a few bites. “What d’you wanna know tonight?”

Clary settles back, gets comfortable. They’d gotten into a routine, the last few days. Every day, they’re allowed three questions about Jonathan that Rhiannon answers as honestly as she can, in as much detail as she can. She’d been hesitant, at first. Worried about betraying his trust. Isabelle had pointed out that they’d be a lot more motivated to find a person and not an idea. And they needed to know him, for him to be a person. 

“Does he watch movies and if yes, favourite movie?” Isabelle’s eyes sparkle with amusement at Simon’s question. Clary’s just surprised it took this long for him to ask. 

Rhiannon chews thoughtfully, swallowing before saying, “He does watch movies. Can’t tell you what his favourite is, though, it changes every week. He’s terrible at choosing favourites. It’s the most annoying thing about him. He’s terrible at choosing, period, actually. We go to a restaurant and he spends twenty minutes just staring at all the options.” She shakes her head, sounding equal parts exasperated and fond. Which, Clary is realizing, is her default when it comes to Jonathan. 

“Why writing?” The words leave Clary’s mouth before she even decides to speak. “I mean, why not drawing, or music, or something else? Why writing?”

She’d been wondering since she found the notebook. Art comes in all sorts of forms, but in the end, it’s about putting yourself and your heart into something tangible. She gravitates to visual arts because that’s how she thinks, because that’s what she sees everyday. With visual art, she can recreate things almost perfectly, almost exactly as she saw it. And her mother had always been a painter, and she’d always wanted to be like her mother. Even now, knowing Mom’s flaws, she still looks up to her. 

Rhiannon shrugs. “Never thought to ask. He wrote, it was a thing, that’s all we really cared about.” She pauses, leaning back. Clary fights the disappointment that surfaces, stabbing at her pork. “Actually,” Rhiannon says after a moment. “I heard him talking to Adrien once. Didn’t hear all of it, but I think he said something about how he can’t draw for shit—”

“He isn’t kidding, I saw Sebastian try once,” Jace mutters, and Clary suppresses a laugh.

“—but he’s read enough books and poetry to have a sense of how words are supposed to work.” Rhiannon doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes, electing instead to push her food around. “I think he just wanted somewhere to put everything. Emotions and all that. I think he just had a lot of things he wanted to tell people, a lot of things he thought and couldn’t say out loud, and he just needed somewhere for it to go.” Her lips turn down, and she gives a carrot a particularly savage stab. “He’s always been shit at letting things go.”

The ensuing lull gives Clary far too much time to think. Too much time to remember. _The last thing I would want now,_ he’d said, moments before he’d died, _would be to bring you more grief._ Remembers Edom’s stink, remembers the Endarkened falling one by one by one like some sick nursery rhyme. For the first time, she wonders if he even wanted to be brought back. If he’d rejoiced, when he’d opened his eyes, or if he’d hated every second of living. 

The angsty poetry makes a lot more sense now.

“What’s he like with the kid?” Isabelle asks. “And who is the kid, even? You’ve never told us his name.”

“Yeah, ‘cos Jonathan might actually kill me if he finds out I told you the kid’s name,” Rhiannon retorts. “He’s...protective. I think the kid reminds him of himself when he was younger. Before Valentine crushed every bit of hope he had that Jocelyn would come back, that he could be loved, and all that.” 

Clary stares down at her plate, eyes starting to burn. How long had it taken for Valentine to destroy any humanity in Sebastian? Six years? Ten? She’d never even considered that he hadn’t been born without the ability to love, or empathy, or any of it; Lilith, in the vision Ithuriel gave them, had warned Valentine that the demon blood would burn any humanity from his veins, but Rhiannon is telling them that wasn’t the case. There had been a boy, once. There had been a child who’d needed love more desperately than anything. 

Rhiannon clears her throat. “Anyways, he, um, I think he’s trying to give A—the kid everything he never got. Like, a stable home, decent school, a supporting family, all that jazz. He’s— It’s kind of adorable, actually. He was so worried about fucking the kid up, he couldn’t even see what a good job he’s doing. I mean, when the kid showed up, he was jumpy, so sure we were gonna give him away. He’d pinwheel between being super excitable and adorable and just...shutting down completely.” Clary looks up to see a distant expression on Rhiannon’s face. Trapped in memory, or just wandering. “He’s—God, I love that kid. He’s so _bubbly._ He’s so much smarter than I was at ten, and he’s so sweet, and—Fuck, I hope he’s okay. I really hope he’s alright. He was gutted when Jonathan left, you know? He’d finally started believing Jonathan wasn’t going to leave him on the side of the road, and then he just…vanished.”

Isabelle is silent, expression unreadable. Clary wonders if she’s still holding onto the belief that Jonathan Morgenstern is answerable to Sebastian’s crimes. She hopes not. 

Clary straightens suddenly. Jace jumps at the sharp movement, spilling roast potatoes all over the floor. Isabelle rolls her eyes, Simon bursts out laughing, and the tension breaks. 

“I’m gonna go get more food,” Clary says. Jace gives her plate a pointed glance, where a half-eaten piece of pork stares up at her. “More potatoes,” she corrects, darting off before he can ask any further. 

Once she’s in the kitchen, she drops her plate as if burned, folding her arms around herself. She almost laughs, slightly hysterically. _A stable home, decent school—_ fucking fuck. She’d known, intellectually, that he’d built a life for himself away from the Shadow World. She would’ve heard of him otherwise, and Rhiannon clearly knows him well and cares for him deeply. But it hadn’t struck her until right fucking now how _much_ of a life he’d had. To go to school, to have stability, you had to be in one place long enough for it to take. 

“Hey.” She spins around to see Simon standing in the doorway, awkwardly holding an empty wine glass. “I, uh—” he points to the tap— “that. Water.”

She doesn’t laugh, just moves aside wordlessly. Simon fills the glass, but doesn’t leave. Instead, he leans against the counter across from her. 

“How you holding up?”

Clary takes a deep breath. Sighs. Drops her head back and stares at the ceiling. Simon huffs a laugh. 

“Yeah, sounds about right.” She hops onto the counter as he says, “It’s a lot. Right? Like, I thought this was gonna be one and done. Y’know, we sleuth around and find a couple clues, we track him down and bam! Home before we know it.”

“I don’t know anything about him,” Clary says, empty voice at odds with the burning-aching-knotting going on in her chest. Like someone’s taken an elastic band and stretches and releases it at unpredictable intervals. Her chest feels like it’s collapsing, heart falling down into a rabbit hole. “We don’t know anything except what Rhiannon tells us, and she’s _obviously_ biased, and I’m so scared to get my hopes up, because I think I’m gonna like him.” 

She looks down to find Simon watching her calmly. He sets the glass down and holds out his hands. She takes them gratefully, the touch grounding her. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” he says, giving her hands a squeeze, “Izzy thinks she’s gonna like him, too, and she _hates_ that.”

An unexpected laugh bursts out of Clary, and Simon looks disproportionately pleased with himself. 

“How mad is she gonna be at you for telling me that?”

Simon winces. “Let’s not talk about that.”

Clary laughs again, sniffling slightly. She rubs her eye with the heel of her hand. _If you turn out to be a raging sadist,_ she thinks, wildly casting her mind out as if she could project her thoughts to her brother, wherever the hell he is, _I am going to be so. fucking. pissed._

**December 2009**

The first thing Jonathan noticed upon entering their townhouse was the god-awful singing. If he was feeling generous, he might describe it as sounding like a chicken being strangled. The only person he knew who could manage to make music sound like an harpy from Hell was Adrien, and Jonathan bit back a smile at the thought. Rather than being irritated, he found himself impossibly charmed by his boyfriend’s lack of skill. 

The second thing he noticed was _Christmas._

Somehow, in the six hours since he left to gather intel, Rhi, Alfie and Adrien had managed to put up and decorate a Christmas tree (which Jonathan hadn’t even realized they had), decorate the mantel with tinsel and fake holly (which Jonathan also hadn’t realized they had), bake three kinds of cookies in various shapes, and make hot chocolate and eggnog (from scratch, judging by the horrifyingly large stack of dishes in the sink).

“Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan!” He’d barely turned around before Alfie barreled into his legs. He stumbled, falling against a wall with a quiet laugh, and wrapped his arms around the kid. 

“I see you’ve been enjoying the cookies,” he said when Alfie looked up, dusting crumbs from the corner of the boy’s mouth.

“They’re really really good.”

“I’m sure they are.” He hung up his coat. Toed off his shoes before Adrien could get on his case for having shoes on in the house. Frog-marched Alfie back into the living room. “No more cookies for now or you won’t be able to eat dinner.”

“But—”

“Alfonse.”

Alfie pouted and slunk away to sulk by the tree. By the Angel, they wrapped _presents_ , too. Adrien was still singing, terribly and tunelessly, and Jonathan couldn’t help but laugh. Rhiannon slouched on the couch with hot chocolate in her hands, probably liberally spiked to cope with Adrien’s singing. She glared at the offending man, smacking Jonathan with a pillow. 

“Do _not_ encourage him. Fuck, he sounds like a banshee.”

That only made Jonathan laugh harder. 

“What is—What are you—What song is this supposed to be?” he managed to get out between breaths. 

Adrien spun around, dramatically throwing tinsel around his neck like a scarf, and geared up for the big finish. “And all I want for Christmas,” he bellowed, shimmying towards Jonathan, “is _yooouuuuu!”_ He even pointed at Jonathan, who couldn’t stop laughing if he tried. 

“You’re a dork,” he told Adrien affectionately as soon as he got his breath back, and Adrien drew himself up taller, looking like a cat who got the cream. 

Jonathan set his notes down on the table before going to get himself a drink. He eyed the pile of dishes, but ultimately decided against washing them. Their mess, their problem. 

Footsteps followed him in, heavier than Rhi’s or Alfie’s. He fought a smile as Adrien wrapped his arms around his waist. 

“Hello, you,” Jonathan said, reaching for a mug. 

“Missed you,” Adrien mumbled against his skin. Jonathan leaned back against him as he filled his mug with eggnog. “Rum’s in the cupboard. Had to put it away in case Alfie got grabby.”

Jonathan turned his head to kiss Adrien’s temple. “You’re a gem.”

“I know.” They fell into comfortable silence as Jonathan made his drink, listening as Alfie regaled Rhi with tales of all the childish mischief he and his school friends had gotten up to. “Don’t get mad.”

Jonathan paused halfway through lifting the mug to his mouth, wary. “What?”

He felt Adrien’s lips twitch as he tried to suppress a smile. “It isn’t anything _bad,_ just...don’t do any work this month.”

“What.”

Adrien turned him around so they were facing each other. Jonathan gave him a Look, hoping it conveyed just how unimpressed he was with that idea. They still had so many people to find; for every five they managed to stop, another ten sprung up. They couldn’t afford to just _stop._

Adrien leaned closer, and Jonathan’s eyes dropped to his lips. Adrien smirked, noticing. Of course he noticed. Smug bastard. 

“Just for a month. Alfie’s gonna be here all the time, and it’s Christmas soon, so we won’t be able to do anything with the information anyways.” Jonathan opened his mouth to protest, but Adrien cut it off with a chaste kiss. “Nuh-uh. No. C’mon, you know Alfie’s been excited for Christmas. You want to leave him with Catarina on Christmas?”

Jonathan glared. “Using my s—Alfie against me. Absolutely despicable.”

Adrien gave him a crooked grin. “Is it working?” 

“No,” Jonathan said, firmly. Adrien looked at him with a knowing gleam in his eyes. “Maybe.” Adrien didn’t look away. Jonathan groaned, dropping his head against Adrien’s shoulder. “Godfuckingdammit, _fine_.” Adrien laughed, shoulders shaking against Jonathan. “Give me a kiss, my ego’s been bruised.”

Adrien was still laughing as he leaned in to kiss Jonathan soundly. He tasted like chocolate and Irish cream. Jonathan wound his arms around Adrien’s neck as Adrien pressed him against the counter. Heat pooled low in his gut as Adrien’s lips parted. He kissed back hungrily, hand slipping into Adrien’s soft curls, and wondered if they had enough time for him to get on his knees—

“Stop making out and get in here, you arseholes!” Rhi shouted from the living room. “There are _children_ present!”

Adrien pulled back, chuckling. Jonathan chased after him, unthinking. Adrien gave him one last kiss before pulling away, leaving Jonathan cold without Adrien’s warm body pressed against him.

“Don’t forget your drink,” the asshole said, winking. Jonathan groaned, dropping his head in his hands. 

**November 12, 2010**

They’d amassed a veritable pile of junk, all clues from various safehouses. They’d bought a box to put everything in; Simon is currently carrying it in his bag. Receipts, postcards, envelopes, candy wrappers, ticket stubs—Clary wonders how many of those things he’d bought purely so he could leave something behind.

The Barcelona streets around them are filled with mundanes rushing to and from work, from school, from home. She’d spotted a few Shadowhunters, but their group blends in well with the mundane crowd. Her heart rate doesn’t slow until the Shadowhunters are out of sight, though. Jace, beside her, squeezes her hand. 

“It shouldn’t be illegal to look for my brother,” she mutters.

“Technically, it’s not,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to let them know. I mean, it wasn’t technically illegal to go to Edom, but—” Clary smacks his chest and he breaks off with an _oof._

“What was the last one dated?” she asks Simon, walking ahead of them. 

“Uh—” he consults his box— “October 25.”

Two weeks ago. 

Sometimes, she thinks she can feel him here, like Jonathan’s just around the corner. Like she’ll turn and he’ll be there, leaning against a wall in a trench coat or something. Maybe he’ll have a cigarette. She’s watched too many spy movies, clearly. 

It’s like chasing a ghost. There are things to watch for, signs of habitation or life or whatever, but the actual phantom is always just out of reach, just out of sight. It almost seems mocking, sometimes. Other times, it seems like a grand old adventure. 

“Here,” Rhiannon says, stopping at a once-elegant building with a crumbling stone facade. She sets her hand on the door, biting her lip in concentration. The lock glows silver; seconds later, it clicks, the door opening inwards. The safehouses are warded, Rhiannon had explained a couple (a few? six? ten? Clary’s lost count) places ago. 

“Had a run-in with some of Valentine’s lackeys in Manchester,” she’d said as she disabled one of the wards. “Decided it’d be a good idea to ward them all so they couldn’t take us by surprise.”

This safehouse is a three-bedroom flat, with a large living/dining area and a kitchen right off the foyer. Like the last few, it’s mostly empty. No jackets, no shoes, no mail, nothing to show that someone had ever lived here except for the dishes in the cupboard and a slowly-dying succulent. Clary winces in sympathy at the sight of the wilting leaves. She has a similar plant at home that she’s been neglecting. 

It’s routine by now, one person in each part of the flat, looking for anything bearing an address or city or date. How long it takes depends on the place, but Clary likes to think they’re getting faster.

Nothing in the kitchen. Nothing in the guest bedroom. Nothing in the other bedroom. 

Clary settles onto the couch as she finishes checking the living room. Rhiannon flops down beside her, shimmying down until she’s half-lying against the cushions. Her horns dig dents into the upholstery. They sit in silence, both exhausted from the running and searching.

“I’m going to wring his skinny little neck when I find him,” Rhiannon grumbles. “All this bloody work.”

Clary muffles a laugh with her hand. It turns into a yawn halfway through. Rhiannon notices. 

“We’ll stay here tonight. I don’t think anyone can take another Portal without getting sick.” She glances away with a thoughtful frown on her face. “It’s a bit like getting punched in the kidney repeatedly, innit? Portals.”

Clary laughs aloud at that. “I was gonna say they’re like roller-coasters that you’re permanently stuck to.”

“That, too.”

“Found it.” Jace’s voice carries through the empty apartment. Like the rest of them, he sounds exhausted. He emerges from the bathroom holding a prescription bottle, frowning. “Oh, never mind, this is from here.”

Clary’s brow furrows. Shadowhunters tend to look down on mundane technology or medicine, never mind that it could do them a lot of good. But Jonathan wasn’t quite a Shadowhunter anymore; he’d lived in the mundane world more or less as a mundane for two years. 

“What is it?” Isabelle asks, abandoning the master bedroom. Jace pauses, one foot back in the bathroom to return the bottle to its original place. It looks half-full.

Simon plucks it out of Jace’s hand. “These are—” He pauses, surprise flickering across his face. “These are sleeping pills, did he have trouble sleeping?”

Rhiannon’s expression shutters. “Nightmares. Insomnia. He told us it was getting better.”

“Well,” Isabelle says, voice breezy. “Guess he lied.”

“Are you sure that’s what they are?” Clary asks, standing. 

“My mom uses these, too.” Simon frowns. “They’re pretty strong.”

A muscle ticks in Rhiannon’s jaw, and she turns away. Her shoulders rise and fall as she takes a deep breath. Silver gleams around her hands like smoke, twining between her fingers and up her wrists, startlingly bright against her dark skin. Clary watches, transfixed.

“I found something in the bedroom,” Isabelle says when it becomes clear no one else is going to talk. She holds up a small file, squinting at the back. “No idea what it says, but—”

Jace leans over, giving it a quick look. “It’s Greek. Modern.” Disappointment flashes over his face. “I’m not sure—I think that says ‘leave’ and then...fuck, ancient Greek doesn’t have calendar dates, I dunno what that says. There’s a 29, October 29?”

“Oh, give it here,” Rhiannon snaps, snatching it up. Silver flickers, and her expression clears. “Check out: October 29 at 11 am. Pantheon Apartments Thessaloniki.” 

Simon stares. “How—”

“Language spell.” Rhiannon holds up the card; from where Clary stands, it looks like a translucent film has been laid over top of the original card, providing an English translation of anything that’s written. You can still see the Greek, but it isn’t the most prominent thing. _Handy._

“So,” Simon says. “To Greece.” He looks pained at the thought of travelling again. 

“We’re staying here tonight,” Clary supplies. 

“Oh, thank the Angel.” Isabelle collapses into an armchair with a groan. 

“Is there a pattern you can see?” Clary asks Rhiannon. “Anything connecting the places or explaining the order he’s going in?”

She shakes her head, tucking the folder into her jean pocket. “It’s always been random. Whenever we get wind of one, we’ll go after it. There’s no order to any of it.” She barks a humourless laugh. “Fuck, we made it so damn easy for him to do—” she gestures vaguely— “this.”

“Don’t you feel, I dunno, betrayed?” Isabelle tilts her head back to look at them. “He’s been going around everywhere, and you’ve been stuck chasing him, and he never even told you where he was going.”

Rhiannon tenses, fingers tapping on the couch’s arm. “Betrayed? I did, a bit. Adrien more than me. I get it, though. I get why he didn’t want us involved.” There’s a glimmer of vulnerability in her eyes. “I just thought he’d at least bring _me_.” She exhales hard, standing. “Whatever. I’m giving him a piece of my mind when we find him, anyways.” Clary watches as she wanders off, muttering darkly under her breath, shoulders tense. She gives Izzy a look.

“What? If I were her, I’d be pissed.”

“Who says she isn’t pissed?” Jace says, taking Rhiannon’s vacated spot. “If he’s really been missing for over a month, with dangerous people after him, she’s probably just moved from ‘pissed’ to ‘terrified’.”

Clary settles onto a couch arm. They’d been through two wars, stopped several Greater Demons, became heads of an Institute. And the uncertainty still hadn’t gotten any easier to deal with. Usually, it was the usual sort—going on patrols, demon danger, that sort of thing. But this, the chasing and looking and guessing—she hasn’t had to deal with this in a while. Three years, actually. She hasn’t missed it.

“Look, we’ll just—” She sighs. “We’ll go to Thessa—Theslon—what is that place called?”

“Thessaloniki,” Jace says, helpful as always. 

“Thessaloniki. Right. Thanks. We’ll go there, see where it gets us. I mean, what was the date on this one? The 26th?”

“Check out by 29th!” Rhiannon calls from the kitchen.

“Right, so we’re getting close to now, which means we’re getting close to him. Which means this is almost over.” _Thank the Angel._ As much as she wants to find him, she also wants to sleep for a hundred years at this point. “Let’s just figure this out, find Jonathan, go home. Okay?” Isabelle gives her a curious look. Clary crosses her arms, well aware she’s acting petulant but too tired to do much about it. “What?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say his name out loud before.”

Clary starts to retort, indignant, but stops. She...hasn’t, actually. Even in the last three years, she’s avoided saying his name, avoided thinking about him, avoided everything about him. Jonathan Morgenstern. Her brother. The realization shakes her to the core, though she couldn’t begin to tell you why. 

“How does Thai sound?” Rhiannon says from the kitchen. Clary spins around to find her leaning against a post. Though her voice is breezy, her eyes are a bit too keen for Clary’s liking. 

“Sounds great,” Jace says, breaking the awkward silence. 

Rhiannon nods, slipping back into the kitchen to order. Clary gestures for the prescription bottle; Simon tosses it. Jace catches the slightly short throw, passing it to Clary with a flourish. She rolls her eyes, turning to the label, but not before catching Jace’s smirk. It rattles as she holds it up. Another piece of the mystery that was her brother. 

A family, prescriptions, enough money to afford a bunch of hotels and apartments…

She groans inwardly. She knows him, but she doesn’t know him. There are still so many things she wants to know, that she wants to ask. _Why didn’t you come to Mom and I? Why Lyon? Do you ever think about our family? Do you even_ want _to see us? Why writing? What do you do for fun?_

Maybe she should start keeping a list. 

**December 31, 2009**

Jonathan drifted awake to lips on the back of his neck. He shifted back, wrapping Adrien’s arms tighter around him and tangling their legs. 

“Five more minutes.”

Adrien chuckled, chest shaking against Jonathan’s back. “It’s already nine am.”

“You wanted me to take a break,” Jonathan argued, turning to tuck his head under Adrien’s chin and closing his eyes again. “This is me taking a break.”

“Mmhmm. You know, Alfie won’t be up for another hour, at least.”

“And?” Jonathan glanced up to see Adrien watching him with a raised eyebrow, lips twitching. Adrien’s hands drifted lower. His sleep-slow brain put the pieces together. “Oh. _Oh.”_ Adrien’s lips twitched incessantly as he fought laughter. “Oh, fuck off, I just woke up, my brain isn’t working yet.”

Adrien lost the battle, finally, burying his laughter against Jonathan’s shoulder so he wouldn’t wake anyone. Jonathan gave him a half-hearted shove. 

“Stop _laughing_ at me.” He tried to glare, but he was fairly sure the effect was lost somewhere between the bedhead and the duvet he’d pulled up to his chin. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you’re just—” Adrien’s laughter faded, replaced by a sappy look of adoration. Jonathan loved hated it. His smile sent a steady thrum of warmth through Jonathan. Not for the first time, Jonathan wondered if Adrien had magic in his veins. Maybe some faerie blood? “I love you. You know that, right?”

Jonathan’s ears burned, and he buried his face in the duvet, unable to stop the smile from spreading over his face. “I know.”

Adrien went back to kissing every inch of Jonathan he could reach, which wasn’t much considering Jonathan had wrapped himself in the duvet like a burrito. They were pressed hip to chest like this. Adrien’s hands slid down his torso, lips sucking on his neck. Jonathan gasped, pressing closer.

 _You know,_ Jonathan thought, tilting his head back to give Adrien better access, _we really_ should _take advantage of Alfie still being asleep…_

It’d been too long, anyways. How long had it been? Two weeks? Three? A month? By the Angel, they’d been so busy—

“Jonathan.”

He shivered at the feeling of Adrien’s lips moving against his skin, already half-hard from anticipation. “Hmm?”

Adrien shifted to look him in the eye. “You’re thinking. Very loudly.”

A smile burst across his face before he tamped it down. “Yes, I tend to do that.” Adrien rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t anything bad, I just—” He leaned his forehead against Adrien’s. “I want to. Really.” Adrien’s hand slipped between his legs, and Jonathan muffled a moan against Adrien’s neck. The responding groan was very encouraging. 

“Stop thinking,” Adrien whispered. 

“Make me,” Jonathan challenged. Adrien grinned, pecking him on the lips, and disappeared under the covers. 

By the time they’d cleaned themselves up, Alfie and Rhi were both awake. Rhi gave the hickey on his neck a pointed look over her coffee, and Adrien grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. Jonathan raised an eyebrow back at her, daring her to comment. She shook her head, smiling faintly. 

The day passed easily enough. Once Jonathan had gotten over the urge to look over his notes or head out for more reconnaissance, he’d taken to the vacation rather well, if he did say so himself. He was steadily making his way through the massive stack of books he’d acquired over the last year or so and hadn’t had a chance to read. Adrien had gotten back into baking. Rhi practiced her magic in her room (“Just so I don’t accidentally blow anyone up,” she’d said). Alfie watched the telly, or bugged one of them, or helped Adrien. 

Sometimes—like today—Alfie got invited to go somewhere with his school friends. Jonathan had been terrified the first time. 

“What if someone takes him?” he’d demanded. “What if he gets hurt? What if they’re terrible people? What if the _parents_ are terrible people?”

It’d been fine in the end, though he still wasn’t sure why Rhi had found his anxiety so amusing. 

By the time night fell, he was pleasantly warm from mulled wine and absorbed in his third book of the week. He barely noticed the door opening and closing before Alfie flopped onto the couch. Jonathan startled, swearing as wine spilled from the glass. Alfie, the little shit, just laughed. Bright and bubbly. And, well, Jonathan couldn’t be mad at him with a laugh like that. 

The first time Alfie had laughed, Jonathan had stopped and stared, an ache in his chest that fell somewhere between longing and triumph, something that seemed too big to be contained to his heart. They’d been in Amsterdam for a few months by then, and they’d been sitting on a bench eating lunch from a food truck. Adrien had accidentally spilled sauce all over himself. Jonathan still didn’t know why _that_ of all things had gotten through to Alfie, but he was glad it had. 

“How was…” He squinted at Alfie, trying to remember the name of his friend. 

Alfie watched him struggle, amused. “Sander?” he supplied.

Jonathan snapped his fingers, pointing at him. “Yes. Sander. Him.” Alfie laughed again, crossing his legs as Jonathan set his book down. “How is he? You have fun?”

Alfie nodded, slumping back against the arm of the couch. “We went to the Christmas market. Everything was on sale.”

“Did you buy anything?” 

“Mmhmm. Gave it to Rhi already.”

Adrien gasped from behind them, emerging from the hallway. “You gave your shopping to _Rhi?_ That’s it.” He plopped down in the armchair, shaking his head in mock despair. “You’ll never see it again.”

Alfie rolled his eyes. “She’ll give it back. It’s not like I bought anything she’ll want.” He paused before amending, “Except maybe the snow globe. And the ornaments. And—oh _no,_ she’s gonna keep it all!” He shot up, racing down the hall. “Rhi! Where’s my stuff?!”

Jonathan shook his head, picking his book back up with a small smile. “Did you _have_ to tease him?”

Adrien chuckled, reaching over to pull Jonathan’s feet onto his lap. “What? It’s fun!”

“You’re an arse.”

“Mm. Not as much as you.”

Jonathan kicked him in the stomach. “ _Connard._ ”

“You love it.”

“You know what I love?” Jonathan set the book down again, standing. “Cookies. They’re out of the oven, yeah?”

“They haven’t cooled yet!” Adrien called after him. “Jonathan! Jonath—oh, for fuck’s sake—”

Jonathan grinned as he popped a checkerboard cookie into his mouth. Did it burn? Yes. Was it worth it? Abso-fucking-lutely. 

Adrien gave him a resigned look from where he was slumped in the armchair as Jonathan walked back in with a plate of cookies. “Well, at least you got me some, too.”

“Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan can I stay up tonight?” Jonathan glanced over his shoulder to see Alfie bouncing on the balls of his feet. He clutched his bag of goods to his chest, having successfully wrested them from Rhi. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Sander says I _have_ to stay up.”

“You _have_ to, do you?” Jonathan echoed, fighting to keep his voice stern. There was something terribly endearing about Alfie’s windblown hair and hopeful eyes. _You’re a sap, Morgenstern,_ he thought as he pretended to study Alfie. _A right sap._ “Well, I _suppose_ if you _have_ to…”

Alfie cheered, racing to the couch to give him a quick hug. “Thank you! Love you!” 

Jonathan froze as Alfie sprinted into his room. Something crashed—probably his bag of goods. Jonathan’s mouth had dropped open slightly; he stared at the hallway, dazed. 

“Did he just—”

“Yeah.” Adrien’s voice snapped him out of his shock. He watched Jonathan evenly, holding a half-eaten cookie in one hand. “Still don’t believe you’re worthy of love?”

“I—” Jonathan leaned back, heart thumping in his chest. “I didn’t think—” What? That Alfie cared about them beyond a convenient safe place to live? That love mattered much, even when it had saved him from becoming like Sebastian, lonely and angry and destructive?

No. No, he hadn’t really thought of himself as someone who deserved to be loved, if he was being honest with himself. It was a quiet refrain in the back of his mind, easy enough to ignore in the face of Adrien’s warm cheer and Alfie’s energetic ramblings and Rhi’s wittiness. His body, his hands, had been responsible for so much pain and death. Love, and soft things like love, were reserved for the heroes, for the healers, for the people who were fundamentally good. 

He was not fundamentally good. Even without the demon blood, he was not a good man.

The scar on his shoulder burned, a constant reminder of why he’d been brought back and the danger that still followed him. 

“Jonathan.” He blinked, startled to find Adrien kneeling on the rug in front of him. Adrien took his hands, kissing the back of his left hand. 

He’d asked, once, why Adrien never kissed his right. Adrien had said, “Because I do not love you because you’re a Shadowhunter, or because you are magic, or because you have power. I love you because you’re clever and cunning and eloquent and beautiful and a thousand other things, and when I kiss you, I don’t want to kiss something that marks you as anything but yourself.”

Funny, how he was remembering that now. 

“Jonathan,” Adrien repeated, softer. He cupped Jonathan’s cheek in one hand. “ _Mon coeur._ You deserve to have the moon handed to you with a bow and the world at your feet. You deserve the sun and the stars and everything you could want.” His eyes were soft, sad. 

Jonathan had always wondered how Adrien could stand to be so vulnerable with everyone, to go about life with no shield over his heart but his skin and bones. It was a special sort of bravery, he thought, to let yourself love and feel without doubt. 

“You are more dear to me than my own life—no, don’t interrupt, you _are_. I would swim rivers and climb mountains and read every book in the world if it pleased you. I would be your shield against the world, your shelter against the rain, your candle in the dark. You are brilliant, and honest, and you are a far better man than you think you are. And you deserve to be loved for all that you are, even the bad.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.” Adrien looked up at him. “You are more than your worst traits or your worst mistakes.” A crooked grin. “I know I can be naive, but I’m no fool. I wouldn’t love someone who did not deserve it.”

Jonathan’s eyes burned. He was aware that he was holding Adrien’s hand too tightly, but he couldn’t make himself let go. He took a shaky breath, trying to compose himself. 

Adrien, perhaps sensing he needed a moment, kissed him on the cheek and said, “I’m going to go make sure Alfie hasn’t bought anything insane.”

Jonathan laughed through sniffles, letting go of Adrien’s hand to wipe at his eyes. “We only gave him twenty euros. What terrible thing could he have bought?”

Adrien winced. “He did say there was a sale.” He paused before leaving. “Will you be alright?”

Jonathan managed a tightlipped smile. “In a moment.”

Adrien nodded, kissing him once on the lips and standing. Jonathan let out a breath as Adrien left, wrapping his arms around himself. _I hate emotions,_ he thought, swiping angrily at the tears that dared escape his eyes. _They’re so… messy._

The rest of the night passed more or less normally. If Jonathan was a little more subdued than usual, that was fine. And if Adrien made a point to say _I love you_ more than usual, that was fine, too. And if Alfie hugged him a few more times than usual, well. That was just lovely. 

Alfie, despite his insistence on staying up, crashed at around 11:30 pm. “But Sander says—”

“Have you stayed up before?” Adrien asked. Alfie, reluctantly, shook his head. “Then it’s all alright. It’s like push-ups—remember when you tried to do push-ups the first time?” Alfie flushed, nodding. Jonathan stifled a laugh. Alfie had managed to do ten before collapsing and exclaiming, _why do you_ do _this to yourselves? It’s awful!_ “Well, it’s like that. You have to practice every year, and every year you get a little better at it.”

“Is that why you and Jonathan can stay up all night?” he asked, curious and a tad bit too innocent for it to be genuine. “Rhi says you keep each other up all the time.”

Jonathan choked on the sip of wine he’d taken. Adrien went red. Rhi ducked her head, hiding a laugh. 

“That’s...Yes, that’s why. But if you’re tired, you have to sleep, kid. You have to listen to your body, first. You know yourself best.”

“So I have to go sleep now?”

“Yeah.” Alfie pouted, but his eyes were dropping shut. Jonathan took pity on him, standing and scooping him up in a bridal carry. 

“We’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, yeah? It’ll be like you were right here the whole time.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He tucked Alfie in, closed the light. Settled back onto the couch. A half hour later, the news anchor turned on the clock counting down to New Year’s Day. Shadowhunters didn’t celebrate this, Jonathan mused. Years were all the same to them; you fought, you defended, you survived (hopefully). 

He hadn’t been a Shadowhunter in three years, despite the runes on his body, and he was better for it

“Make a wish, _mon moitié_ ,” Jonathan whispered, tucked into Adrien’s side as the TV started their countdown to New Year. Rhi kept her gaze trained on the TV, ignoring them, but he caught a glimpse of her smile, gentler than her usual smirk.

Adrien smiled down at him, eyes molten in the dimmed lights. “That’s for birthdays.” 

“Make one anyways.” 

Adrien laughed softly, kissing him on the forehead. “Only if you make one, too.” 

“Fine.” 

_Five,_ the anchor announced. _Four._

Jonathan tucked his head under Adrien’s chin, eyes on Amsterdam outside their window.

 _Three._ It was snowing outside, just a gentle whisper of snowflakes and wind. 

_Two._ There was so much he wanted to hope for. So much he didn’t dare. 

_One._

_Happy New Year, indeed,_ he thought. 

“What did you wish for?” Adrien asked. _Nothing,_ Jonathan almost admitted. 

“You,” he said, instead. _I’ll always be wishing for more time with you. Even when I have you right beside me._

Adrien tilted his chin up, meeting his eyes, serious as he rarely was. “You have me.” He wrapped his arms tighter around Jonathan. 

“For as long as you want, you have me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://aceass1n.tumblr.com/)!


	5. The Stars are Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have been going well, haven't they?
> 
> Maybe a little TOO well.
> 
> (and we get some more Rhiannon and Jonathan backstory, so buckle in for that)
> 
> TW: homophobia (very briefly), mentions of drugs (or the fantasy equivalent), mentions of alcohol use

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from coda by James Tate
> 
> No songs this time, y'all, sorry.

**November 13, 2010**

“He can’t make Portals,” Rhiannon says as they step into bright Mediterranean sunlight. Hope has put a bounce in her step. Clary isn’t sure if she’s imagining things, but Rhiannon’s horns look a little shinier. “He can’t have gone to _too_ many places. We’re getting close, we _have_ to be.”

She turns, giving them a bright smile with too much teeth, and Clary can’t help but grin back. Her optimism is infectious. 

_This might be it,_ Clary finds herself thinking. _The penultimate destination._

She fights back nerves as Rhiannon leads them up the street in Thessaloniki, Greece. She won’t deny she’s excited to find him, and not just because she’s tired of Portal-hopping. But she’s worried. The closer they get, the more she worries. She’d wished for a brother once, mourned her loss of him once, and. 

Well. 

They all knew how _that_ had gone. 

The concierge doesn’t even acknowledge them. Clary’s brows furrow. 

“Shouldn’t he be more aware of who’s coming in and out?”

Rhiannon holds up her hand, wiggling her fingers. “Warlock.”

Glamours. Right. Makes sense. 

They ignore the _Do Not Disturb_ sign, letting themselves in with the card in the file. The room itself is spacious, elegant, with a settee against one wall and a double bed against the other. Like the safehouses and other hotel rooms, there’s nothing immediately out of place. For a moment, it strikes Clary as odd that no one else has been in here since October 29, but she brushes it aside. 

Simon sighs. “Here we go again.”

And the search commences. 

**October 16, 2008**

Jonathan stopped short on the landing to his apartment, keys in his mouth as he paused in the midst of sorting his mail. His hair stood on end. He narrowed his eyes at his locked door, taking the keys out of his mouth. It hadn’t been tampered with, but something felt _off._ And his instincts were very rarely wrong. 

He tucked his mail into his bag, pulling a dagger out from his boot. Shadowhunter training kicked in as he approached the door, feet soundless and dagger held at the ready.

Pausing at the door, he took a moment to regulate his breathing. 

He shoved the door open. 

In the centre of the room stood a horned woman with bright blue hair contrasting ebony skin. Her hands shot up at the sound. Silver magic twined around her fingers. For a moment, they stared at each other, both equally surprised.

Jonathan reacted first. “Who the _fucking hell_ are you?” 

The warlock lowered her hands, brows furrowing. “You’re not supposed to be here, are you?” 

“What?” 

“Here. Life.” She shook her head as if clearing it of cobwebs. She had an English accent. “Never mind.”

He didn’t lower his dagger. “I’ll reiterate, since you don’t seem to have heard me. Who. The hell. Are you?”

The warlock gave a put-upon sigh, crossing her arms. “Rhiannon Locke.” She tilted her head. “Who’re you?”

He stared at her, searching for any hint of a lie. No one had recognized him yet, though he’d started hanging out at more Downworlder pubs and cafes. No one wanted to believe Jonathan Morgenstern was alive. Again. 

Honestly, at some point, you’d think people would give up on killing him. It didn’t seem to stick.

He sighed. She genuinely didn’t recognize him, so it was highly unlikely that Valentine’s people sent her. Finally, he lowered the dagger. 

“Jonathan Morgenstern.”

Her mouth dropped open. “No shite?” He sheathed his dagger. A complicated set of emotions passed across her face, like slides in a toy slide-viewer. Eventually, she settled on impressed, nodding “Alright. Alright, that’s...alright, then.”

His eyebrows shot up. “‘Alright’? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“Well, I reckon someone’s coming after you, so no point in doing their work for them.” She started out of the room. “Why’re all the mirrors covered?”

He hesitated, one hand on his bag. _Because I keep seeing black eyes instead of green. Because I can’t look at my scars without feeling like the world is caving in on me._ _Because there’s a scar on my shoulder that terrifies me. Because I keep seeing_ him _when I should see me._

“Don’t like them,” he settled on. “Haven’t you heard the stories about souls getting trapped inside?” 

She scoffed. “Don’t tell me you believe that.” 

“Oh, but haven’t you heard?” He shot her a humourless smile. “All the stories are true.” 

**November 13, 2010**

“Nothing,” Rhiannon says after a few hours of searching. She slams the papers down, sending them flying. Her hair sticks up around her as if she’d pressed her hand to one of those electricity things at a science museum, a cobalt cloud. “Not a single god _damn_ thing.” 

“Maybe he’s still here,” Simon says. He doesn’t look convinced. None of them do. 

_Check out by October 29,_ the folder had said. He’d be long gone.

Rhiannon exhales hard, arms braced against a coffee table. Jace and Isabelle had flopped onto the bed and don’t seem all that interested in moving. Clary paces, trying to work the restlessness out of her bones. 

“Have we checked the—” she starts.

“Drawers?” Simon interrupts. “Yeah.”

“How about the—”

“Medicine cabinet?” Isabelle asks. “Yeah.”

“And the—”

“Closet?” Jace props himself up on his elbows, watching her pace. “Yep. Nothing.”

Clary groans, dragging a hand through her hair. The clues, while well-disguised as nothing out of the ordinary, had always been _just_ out of place enough to be obvious. This hotel room is a blank slate. Nothing at all. 

“Maybe housekeeping took some stuff away?”

“Yeah, why _was_ the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, anyways?” Simon asks. “I mean, hotels don’t just give those out. There wouldn’t be any signs on the door unless someone was staying in this room.”

Rhiannon’s eyes narrow. She makes her way to the door, studying the wall around it, then the wood of the door itself. She moves her way down the wall, face inches from the wallpaper. Clary exchanges bemused glances with the other Shadowhunters. _What’s she doing?_ she mouths. Isabelle shrugs, while Jace makes a _who cares?_ gesture. 

After a moment, Rhiannon steps back. “Nope. No wards, no glamour, no runes, nothing.” She groans, banging her head against the wall. “Fuck.”

Clary snorts. “Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”

“Someone must’ve seen him, though, right?” Isabelle sits up. “I mean, he’s still a blond smarmy asshole, isn’t he? That isn’t exactly inconspicuous.”

Rhiannon pauses, turning slowly. “Isabelle,” she says. “You’re a genius.”

She wrenches the door open, starting down the hall. The others scramble after her, swearing. They pass other hotel patrons and maids; Rhiannon skirts them with professional ease. Jace keeps up a steady stream of curses as they race after the warlock. 

“Where the hell are we going?” he demands as they emerge back in the street. 

“ _Dromos Ekates.”_ She doesn’t even break stride as a cat leaps into their path, just jumps over it. “Lots of Downworlders have businesses and stuff there. I think.”

Simon opens his mouth at the uncertainty in Rhiannon’s voice. She waves a hand at them, sending silver sparks flying. 

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Can’t be worse than staring at an empty hotel room. Oh.” She stops abruptly, sending Clary crashing into her back. She does an about-face and leads them into an alley. “I should probably—right, c’mere.” She digs around in her bag, coming up with a vial of viscous red liquid. “You’ll need a language sigil, probably. I know you’ve got your runes, but Jonathan always said those don’t last very long, not that he ever used runes unless he had to. This’ll be better.” No one moves, and Rhiannon shakes the vial at them. Liquid sloshes. “Listen, I might not trust myself to make a Portal, but sigils aren’t too hard.” 

Isabelle gives the vial a dubious look. “And it has to be in blood?” 

Rhiannon gives out a put-upon sigh. “It’s _paint_. Let me have my fun, won’t you?”

In the end, it doesn’t matter. They don’t manage to make any headway, even with the language sigils. Their ability to understand and speak Greek doesn’t hide the fact that they’re Shadowhunters, and if that isn’t enough, anyone who seemed friendly at first glance clammed up completely when they mentioned Jonathan’s name. Clary isn’t sure if it’s because they’re afraid of his vengeance should they reveal his location or because they don’t want to admit they’ve been consorting with someone who’s more or less a criminal. She suspects it’s a bit of both. 

Not even Rhiannon manages to make much progress. Though she’s a warlock, and therefore one of _them,_ it doesn’t change the fact that no one wants to be known as knowing anything about Jonathan Morgenstern. 

A vendor watches them suspiciously as they move off the street. _Dromos Ekates_ would be beautiful, if she were here for literally any other reason. White-plastered buildings reflect the noon-time sunlight, filling the street with light. The briny scent of sea floats in from the harbour, barely ten minutes away. Colourful roofs cover buildings; signs dot the streets. Mundanes and Downworlders alike relax for lunch at the various venues. 

Did Jonathan ever come down here for a stroll or a meal? Did he ever sit by the ocean, watching the waves roll in? It’s hard to imagine him doing anything mundane like that. Anything relaxing. But she can’t believe he did nothing but chase after Valentine’s lackeys and collect information. He had to have done _something_ to unwind. Read on the beach? Did he even like the ocean? 

Well. She guesses that’s another question for the list. 

Rhiannon sighs, rubbing her temple. “I was so damn _sure…”_

Jace pats her on the back. “Well, you’ve gotta admit, things were going a little _too_ well.”

She groans. Clary’s lips twitch. 

Isabelle, beside her, whispers, “Did you think we’d find anything?” Clary shakes her head. Isabelle nods. “Me neither.”

“Lunch,” Clary decides out loud. She glances over her shoulder. “We’ll figure out what to do next over food.”

Rhiannon argues, “But we—”

“No. Nope. I’m hungry, and I’m betting the rest of us are, too. We can’t help you on an empty stomach.”

“Clary,” Simon says, grinning, “you’re a blessing.”

She gives a mocking little bow, and Isabelle chuckles. Rhiannon glares, looking around for support. Finding none, she growls. 

“Fine. Lunch, and we’ll figure out a plan there.” Worry gleams in her eyes as she glances around. “It just doesn’t make _sense_ …” she’s saying as Clary turns away. 

Rhiannon’s right. It _doesn’t_ make sense that he was clearly here, but there’s no sign of him. All the last few clues were purposeful, leading them on a merry chase down the rabbit hole. But if he’d been leaving them on purpose, why isn’t there anything here? 

The unease from a few days ago, before everything started looking up, slips back in. _Something’s wrong,_ a voice whispers. _Something went wrong._

Clary takes a deep breath. Lunch. Maybe things’ll look a little less bleak over food. 

**January 2009**

“You’re a dick,” Rhiannon said, laughing uncontrollably. 

“No, really!” Jonathan leaned forwards, picking up a piece of lettuce with his fork. “He came in, asked us, all snottily, _how dare you sell books about such immoral behaviour?”_ He mimicked a French accent (even though the customer had spoken in French) and gestured with a fork. “It’s a _gay couple,_ old man. Fucking hell, you’d think it’d advocated for political assassination or something. What was I supposed to do?”

“I can’t believe you threw him out, kissed Adrien while flipping him off, and then blacklisted him from the store.” Rhi wheezed. “That is...that’s absolutely iconic. You’re my hero, Jonathan Morgenstern, have I told you that?”

“Yes, but you can always tell me again.” 

Rhiannon sipped her water, sapphire eyes still glittering with mirth. “Absolutely legendary. Did Adrien _know_ why his boyfriend decided to snog him at work?”

“Oh, yeah, it was his idea.”

Rhiannon let out a bark of laughter that attracted some filthy looks from the other diners. They were at a fairly upscale restaurant, mostly because they both liked the thought of sitting somewhere neither of them really belonged and acting like they owned the place anyways. Between the two of them, they certainly had the money for it.

“God, that’s amazing. Can’t imagine Chesar was pleased.” 

“You know he doesn’t pay attention to the day-to-day minutiae of running the store.”

Chesar, the elderly owner of the bookstore, had mostly learned to leave his employees to their own devices. As long as they continued making a profit, no matter how slim, he didn’t care. Jonathan was rather fond of the man. He had a nice, grandfatherly aura about him, combined with the long-suffering expression of a single father raising teenagers. His own fault for exclusively hiring teenagers and people in their early twenties, really.

They fell into easy silence as they ate, occasionally picking things off the other’s plate. Rhiannon was glamoured today, horns hidden. If Jonathan unfocused his eyes, he could see what the mundanes saw; two buns on either side of her head in place of horns. 

“Oh, there were a couple Shadowhunters at the Market the other day. Weren’t asking about you, but they said something about suspicious persons in the area.”

Jonathan shook his head, unconcerned. “There are always suspicious persons in the area. It’s probably just some warlock selling illicit potions.”

She gave him a side-eye. “And what would _you_ know about illicit potions?”

“That they exist. Prat. You think I’m foolish enough to take drugs from the street? I rather _like_ the way I look now, thanks.” He remembered Jace telling him—Sebastian, he reminded himself; even in the peaceful moments, he’d been Sebastian, not himself—about a potion Simon Lewis had accidentally taken that had turned him into a rat. The thought filled him with amusement, imagining the skinny mundane scurrying around, squeaking like one of the rats in Ratatouille. 

Rhiannon took a slow sip, expression skeptical. 

He set his fork down. “Rhiannon. If I wanted to intoxicate myself, I’d just drink myself blind.”

“That’s more expensive.”

“Eh. Debatable. I heard someone offering potions at twenty euros for five milligrams.” He picked his fork back up. “You could get two cocktails for that.”

“Ah, but the five milligrams’ll get you high faster.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Have _you_ taken them before?”

Rhiannon scowled, staring pointedly at her plate. Her ears went pale rather than red when she was embarrassed, a warlock quirk of hers he’d noticed a while ago. 

“No,” she mumbled, thoroughly unconvincing. He waited. Eventually, she sighed. “Look. I was sixteen, stupid, thought it’d be a fun time and no. No. Not even close. Fuck, I thought I was gonna _die,_ Jonathan. D. I. E. I thought, ‘you know, most warlocks live ‘til they’re hundreds of years old but nope, not me, I’m just a dumbarse who’s going to die at sixteen because _she has no fucking self-preservation’._ ”

Jonathan shook with silent laughter as she ranted, “And you know what makes it worse? Tessa fucking Gray finds me in an alley, talking at the wall like I’m in some Shakespeare play, and she _laughed_ at me, Jonathan. She. Laughed. I mean, she helped me, but— _s_ _top laughing at me._ ” 

Jonathan buried his head in his hands, imagining a younger Rhiannon reciting Shakespearian sonnets at a brick wall, and promptly dissolved into laughter again. 

Rhiannon groaned. “I’m _never_ telling you anything about myself again, Morgenstern. Never.”

“You like talking about yourself too much.”

“I do _not!”_ she said, indignant. “Lies. Slander. I take it back, you’re an arsehole, I don’t look up to you at all.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I _don’t_.”

“Eat your steak, Locke.”

“I _don’t!”_

After a moment, he glanced up. “Was it at least a badass speech?”

She groaned, dropping her head in her hands. “I fucking hate you.”

**November 13, 2010**

They end up in a little sea-front restaurant. It’s quaint, all limestone and high ceilings and rough-hewn tables. Clary finds it charming. 

“Is this really it?” Isabelle asks for the fifth time, mopping up tzatziki with a piece of chicken. They’ve been going in circles, trying to think of places he might be, patterns they might’ve missed, anything at all. “You don’t know any other places he could be?” 

Rhiannon shrugs, tearing her flatbread to pieces. The shadows of the restaurant emphasize the dark circles under her eyes. Clary wonders idly if she’s been sleeping. 

Beside Clary, Jace asks, “What about Amsterdam? There was a place there, when Sebastian took me all over Europe.” 

Clary stiffens. It isn’t exactly a new thought; this, crossing Europe looking for Jonathan, has reminded her of Sebastian’s apartment and everything that happened then. Things she hasn’t let herself think about in...years, really. Jace reaches over under the table and squeezes her hand. _I’m here_ , the gesture says. _I’m still here._

“He isn’t in Amsterdam,” Rhiannon says. 

Clary’s eyes narrow at the certainty. “And you know that because…?”

For the first time, Rhiannon looks uncomfortable. She stares, hyper-focused, at her plate, where she’s systematically ripping food to shred. 

“He just isn’t.” 

“It can’t hurt to check,” Simon says, always the peacekeeper. 

“I said, _he isn’t there!_ ” 

The cutlery bends in front of Rhiannon. Clary’s eyes widen. She’s been around warlocks plenty, but they’re all old, fully in control of their powers. Rhiannon—Rhiannon isn’t. Not yet. 

She looks around to see if any of the other customers noticed, but no one’s looking their way. 

Rhiannon presses her palms to the table, taking a deep breath. The cutlery unbends. 

“Sorry. He’s just—I’m in touch with people there, and they haven’t seen him.” 

“We don’t have any other ideas,” Isabelle argues. “What else are we going to do, wait?” 

“But—” Rhiannon breaks off, jaw working furiously. 

Isabelle leans forwards, voice dangerously soft. “You’re not hiding anything, are you?” 

Rhiannon glares. “No.” A pause. “Not exactly.” Clary raises an eyebrow at her. Indecision flickers in Rhiannon’s eyes. Eventually, her shoulders slump. “Whatever you see when we get there, you need to promise not to tell anyone. Not the Clave, not your parents, no one. It isn’t—” She stops, shaking her head. “Oh, he’s going to hate this,” she mutters before saying, louder, “I need to know they’ll be safe if I take you to them. I promised Jonathan I’d keep them safe.” 

Understanding clicks. “Adrien and the kid,” Clary says.

Rhiannon sighs, nodding. She looks downright miserable. She pops some bread in her mouth, clearly uninterested in speaking right then. Clary sits back. Considers. 

“Why would he want to hide them from the Clave?” Simon asks. “I mean, I’m not gonna tell anyone ‘cuz, who would I tell? But they haven’t done anything, and they’re mundanes, so why—”

“Your Clave is terrible at keeping things quiet,” Rhiannon says. “You send your Shadowhunters into Downworld pubs and clubs and restaurants and bars and think you’re being discreet because you only sent one or two.” She scoffs. “By the end of the hour, everyone knows where the Shadowhunters are and why. If the Clave knew about Adrien and A—and the kid, everyone would probably know about them soon. Which means Valentine’s lot would know about them, and where they are.” Rhiannon’s gaze is fire-tempered steel, the effect heightened by the sun picking silver out of her blue hair. “We’ve kept Amsterdam secret. Silent. No one who knows them knows they’re affiliated with Jonathan, and _it has to stay that way._ At least for now.” She meets each of their eyes in turn. “Am I clear?” Silence greets her. “I said,” she repeats, setting her bread down. “ _Am I clear?”_

A chorus of assent rises up around the table. She gives them a hard look, and nods. 

“I need to—” She breaks off with a sigh, getting to her feet. She somehow manages to look simultaneously resigned and irritated. “I need to call Adrien.” 

Clary nods, and Rhiannon steps out of the restaurant into the street. She leans against a streetlight, arms crossed. They’re doing the right thing, aren’t they? If there’s any chance of finding him, any chance at all of there being clues in Amsterdam, they had to go there, right?

“We’ll be careful,” Isabelle says. Clary glances over to see her watching Rhiannon, too. Her forehead creases. Clary wonders, suddenly, if she’s thinking of Max. Her little brother. There’s going to be a little boy in Amsterdam, younger than Max would be now if he’d survived, but not by too much. A few years. 

So many deaths. So many people mourned and burned and remembered by a thread. She can’t blame Jonathan for wanting to protect his family, knowing that. The family he’d found himself. 

She doesn’t know many things about Jonathan, but that thought—that he’d survived, found himself a family—fills her with a surprising sense of pride. 

Rhiannon’s mouth moves, but she’s too far away, and the street too loud, for them to hear what she’s saying. 

“What d’you think they’re gonna be like?” Simon asks. The waiter comes by to grab their plates, and Simon gives him a nod of thanks. Once he’s gone, Simon turns back to them. “The boyfriend and the kid?”

“No idea.” Jace reaches for his water. “What sort of person falls in love with a reformed sociopath with a mean streak and self-sacrificing tendencies?”

Clary’s tempted to defend Jonathan, except that she doesn’t have anything to defend him with. 

“He’s either gonna be just like him or way too good for him,” Isabelle says, balancing her elbows on the table. “I’m guessing the second one, if Jonathan wants to protect him.”

“Especially if there’s a kid involved,” Simon adds. 

Clary leans back in her seat as Rhiannon returns, looking a bit lighter. “We’ll go this evening. Look around Thessaloniki a bit, maybe take a break. Adrien said not to go ‘til he picks A—oh, fuck it, you’re gonna meet him in a few hours anyways—the kid’s name is Alfie, short for Alfonse, do _not_ call him Alfonse unless you want him to think he’s in trouble—anyways, what was I saying?” She pauses, staring expectantly. 

“Adrien picking up—”

“Right, yes, Adrien said not to show up ‘til he picks Alfie up from school so you can meet them both at once. Plus it’ll be easier to key the lot of you into the wards if everyone tries to get in at once and they’re already inside.” 

Simon clears his throat. “So that’s…”

“Well, Alfie gets out at three, so we’ll probably get there around four. Give ‘em some time to settle in.” 

She rolls her shoulders back, looking a bit like she’s about to walk into battle. Chin tilted up, back straight, hands loose at her sides. Clary’s never seen her in a fight, she realizes. She knows that Rhiannon _has_ been in fights, has _won_ those fights, but she’s never actually seen the warlock in action. Does she use magic? Regular weapons? Both?

_Focus,_ she reminds herself, pulling herself out of her temporary fascination with Rhiannon’s ability to fight. _You’re going to meet your brother’s boyfriend and kid soon. Focus._

“So.” Rhiannon drums on the table, giving them all an expectant look. “We all ready to go, then?”

**June 3, 2009**

Grocery shopping, Jonathan thought, really should be done on one’s own, without an easily-distracted kid and one’s even-more-easily-distracted warlock friend. He pushed the cart down the aisle, once again entertaining the idea of holding Rhiannon’s hand purely to stop her from wandering off every few minutes and returning with something random. 

“Breathe,” Adrien whispered into his ear. Jonathan gave him a sheepish look as Alfie studied the Dutch labels with barely concealed fascination. 

“That obvious?”

Adrien laughed softly. “No. I just know you.”

“What are these?” Alfie pointed to a package of cookie-looking things. 

Without looking, Adrien said, “ _Stroopwafel_. They’re like wafers.” 

Rhi looked at the package with renewed interest, dumping her most recent stash in the cart. “They any good?” 

Jonathan sighed inwardly, resigning himself to having to return half the cart’s contents to their original places before going to check out. 

“Anything’s good if you put enough sugar in it,” Adrien said, straightfaced. Jonathan smacked him on the arm. “What? It’s true!” 

“Can we get a pack?” Alfie looked up at Jonathan, eyes wide. His expression was wary, hesitant to ask for something, but for fuck’s sake, he was _pouting_ . _By the Angel, is this what life would’ve been like if I’d been raised with Clary?_

For someone who had only recently escaped a shitty home, Alfie was shockingly good at guilting people. Or maybe Jonathan was just an easy mark. 

The money had to last them who knew how long. They shouldn’t get anything that wasn’t absolutely essential. Essentials were non-perishables that were still nutritious, fruits and vegetables, meat—certainly not treats. 

Adrien leaned his forearms against the cart, eyes twinkling. “Yeah, Jonathan. Can we get a pack?” 

Those damned eyes. Jonathan could melt in those fucking eyes. 

Jonathan pointed an accusing finger at him. “Stop that.” 

“Stop what?” Adrien’s tone was innocent, a little _too_ innocent. He knew exactly what he was doing, the little shit. 

“Stop—Oh, for fuck’s sake, fine,” Jonathan groaned, throwing his hands up in defeat. Adrien cheered, dropping a pack into the already-full cart. Alfie grinned, looking pleased with himself. 

It took an hour longer than it should’ve to get everything. Every time they passed something Rhi had thrown in, Jonathan pointedly returned it to the shelf, giving her a look that _dared_ her to put it back. Adrien suppressed a smile at each of their silent stand-offs. 

By the time they made it to the check-out, Jonathan was exhausted. “How are you,” he asked Alfie,” better behaved than those two—” he jerked his head towards Adrien and Rhi— “and you’re a _kid?”_

“Hey!” Adrien protested. “I got you the vegetables.” Jonathan looked from him, to the _stroopwafels,_ to the other five snacks Adrien had thrown in and back to him. Slowly raised an eyebrow. Adrien rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I’m still better than Rhi.”

“That’s not a high bar to reach.”

Rhi tsked, delicately setting their items onto the conveyor belt. “Don’t be rude.”

“Rhi.”

“Hmm?”

“Take the saltines off the conveyor belt.”

Jonathan was _so tired._

Adrien, bless his heart, carried most of the bags in a silent apology for making Jonathan’s trip to the store hell. Jonathan kissed him on the cheek. 

“I’m still annoyed with you.”

“I know, _mon renard.”_ He hoisted the bags higher, bracing a couple against his leg as he fought with the keys. Rhi plucked the keys out of Adrien’s hands and opened the door, breezing in with a grocery bag hanging off her arm like a designer bag. Jonathan shook his head, equally amused and irritated. 

“Go wash your hands, kid,” Jonathan said to Alfie. “We’ll put these away.”

“I can help,” Alfie said, eyes darting from the bags to the hallways as if trying to catch them out in some lie. Jonathan’s heart twinged. How many times had he failed Valentine’s tests without knowing they were tests? _Enough not to trust any sort of unfounded kindness,_ he thought bitterly.

“There’s no trick,” Jonathan said, gentle, kneeling down so he was eye level with Alfie. “We’re the adults, so we can take care of this. No tricks,” he repeated when Alfie still looked a little suspicious. “I promise.” He held up a hand, like he’d seen people do in those movies Adrien and Rhi had made him watch. “Pinkie promise.”

Alfie hesitated for a moment before linking pinkies with him. “You can’t break a pinkie promise.”

By the Angel, this hurt. Had he been this young once? This vulnerable? A burst of hatred burned through him, at Valentine, at the world, at his mother for leaving him alone to become a monster. 

“No,” he said, and was seized with the sudden urge to kiss the kid on the forehead, reassure him he’d be safe here, he’d be alright here. _If anyone comes for him, I am going to beat their face in until they’ll be able to taste their intestines._ “No, we can’t.”

Alfie nodded resolutely and turned to race off into the house. The pitter-patter of his footsteps faded as Jonathan straightened, groaning. Fuck, he felt like he’d aged years in the last week. Everything hurt, even though Catarina had healed most of his injuries. Only the stab wound needed a little longer, because of how deep it had been. 

Adrien and Rhi were bickering in the kitchen when he walked in, something about where to put the tomatoes.

“Tomatoes go in the fridge,” Adrien insisted. “I’m French _and_ Iranian _and_ Taiwanese, for fuck's sake, I know my food.”

“They go in the _pantry,_ you absolute imbecile, I will _die on this hill—”_

Jonathan sighed, burying his head in his hands. When he spoke, his voice was empty. Hollow. 

“Can you—can the two of you just stop fighting for a moment? Five seconds?”

Immediate silence. 

“Jonathan?” Rhi asked a moment later, reaching a hesitant hand out. “Are you— _tàbharadh,_ are you alright?”

He nodded without looking up. Moments later, familiar arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him back against a solid chest. He leaned gratefully against Adrien. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, I’m so fucking _sorry_ —”

“No, _mon coeur.”_ Adrien leaned his cheek against Jonathan’s cheek. “Nothing to apologize for. It’s been a crazy few days.” Jonathan huffed a laugh, eyes drifting shut. He was so warm, and comfortable here, and— “How about this? Rhi and I can put the groceries away, and I can make lunch tonight. You should take a nap.”

“I woke up three hours ago.”

“And when did you last sleep before last night?” Jonathan stayed conspicuously silent. “Exactly.” Adrien carded his fingers through Jonathan’s hair, gentle. He was always so gentle with Jonathan. Like he held his ancient artifacts, like Jonathan was something irretrievably precious to him. Jonathan’s eyes prickled at the careful touch, and he turned his head into his Adrien’s neck.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Adrien nudged him with a shoulder. “Go.”

Jonathan considered protesting, but ultimately decided against it. A nap sounded good. Great, actually. He straightened with a sigh, setting his bag down. 

“We should check if Alfie has any allergies.”

“We’ll do it,” Rhi told him, voice unusually gentle. An apology in more words. “We’ve got this, Morgenstern. Go sleep.”

He nodded, knocking on the kitchen counter. He was loitering, he knew. Micromanaging. Rhi gave him a pointed look, and he exhaled. 

“Nap. Right. Yes. You’re sure—”

“ _Yes,”_ Adrien said. “I’ll wake you up when it’s time to eat.” Finally, Jonathan ran out of excuses and moved out of the hallway. He went through the motions of a shower and collapsed in bed. 

He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm...sorry? But hey, there were some fun parts, too. 
> 
> If anyone's wondering, Rhiannon was reciting Shakespeare's Sonnet 116 because I fucking love that sonnet. 
> 
> Come say hi! I'm [aceass1n](https://aceass1n.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	6. A Dance on a Courthouse Lawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we're getting into how Jonathan met Adrien. The chapter is mostly toothrotting fluff...as much as it can be, considering it's a search for a missing persons who might be dead.
> 
> TW: alcohol, anxiety, grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read up to this point! It means a lot to me. 
> 
> Chapter title from little beast by Richard Siken
> 
> No songs here, either; don't worry, there are a LOT in some of the later chapters

**July 20, 2008**

“Evan Loran, _monsieur_.” 

Jonathan reached his hand out, shaking the hand of the old man in front of him. He wasn’t _really_ old, maybe in his seventies. He had grey hair peppered with black and a carefully trimmed moustache. With his sweater vest and pressed trousers, he bore an alarming resemblance to one of those prissy boys Jonathan had seen coming out of English private schools. 

“Chesar Villeneuve.” The man squinted at him, and Jonathan fought the urge to squirm. He knew his French was good, but he also knew he had a slight accent. Lyon wasn’t Paris; it wasn’t as easy to get away with foreign accents here. “Where did you say you’re from?”

“Switzerland,” he said. “Geneva.” Hell, he had the looks for it. Might as well take what he could get.

Chesar studied him for a moment longer. Jonathan discreetly wiped his clammy hands on his trousers. For a moment, he almost wished for the demon blood back. At least Sebastian had been a decent liar. 

“And you’ve never worked before?” he asked, looking down at the resume Jonathan had spent weeks figuring out how to make with furrowed brows.

“I’m afraid not, _monsieur_. School took up so much time, you understand—”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Chesar looked up, setting the resume down. “Why do you want to work at a bookstore? You young things, you always want fast-paced, you like those cafes, eh?”

Jonathan gave him a genuine smile and answered honestly, “I’ve had enough of ‘fast-paced _’_ for a lifetime, _monsieur._ ”

Chesar tilted his head thoughtfully, gave him a once-over. “You have plans for today?”

“No, _monsieur._ ”

“Good. Then you start now.” Jonathan startled, almost tripping over a box. “Adrien!”

A man appeared from behind a bookshelf, a stack of books in hand. 

Jonathan’s breath caught. He was _beautiful,_ tousled mahogany hair that the sun limned in gold and warm ochre skin. As he came closer, Jonathan almost whimpered. His _eyes._ Like molten amber, or whiskey in the sunlight. He smiled at Jonathan and _Raziel help him,_ the man had _dimples._ He wanted to run his hands through the man’s hair, kiss his dimples, hold his hand— _wait, what?_

Jonathan knew, objectively and intellectually, that he liked men as well as women. 

He also knew, objectively and with rising certainty, that he had never liked anyone, of any gender, quite this much. 

He swallowed hard as Chesar said, “This is Adrien. He will show you around,” and vanished into a back room. Somewhere. Jonathan didn’t pay attention. He tried—really, he did—to look away from Adrien, but it was a lost cause. 

“Adrien Fauré,” Adrien said, holding a hand out. Jonathan shook it, wincing inwardly at his sweaty palms. 

He caught himself before he gave his real name, tensing for a moment. “Evan Loran.”

Adrien didn’t drop his hand as he started leading him into the stacks. “It’s a labyrinth in here, but there’s a system, I promise. Takes a bit of getting used to.”

Jonathan rolled his shoulders back. _It’s just like battle,_ he told himself. Except instead of demons, he was defending himself against a twenty-year-old mundane with dimples and welcoming eyes.

This was temporary, he reminded himself. There wasn’t any point in getting attached. 

A week passed, and Adrien continued showing him around the store and being _nice_ to him, introducing Jonathan to his friends when they came by and telling Jonathan about his classes at the university. Jonathan fended off Adrien’s and other coworkers’ attempts at socializing, drinks or lunch or parties. He kept to himself, mostly, learned where things were and charmed customers and pretended he didn’t notice Adrien studying him like he was a mystery to be solved. 

Two weeks, and he stopped struggling to use French daily instead of English. Started loving the language for its association with security and warmth and safety. Started feeling far more comfortable in French than English.

A month passed, and he loved his work. He loved every inch of it, and he was sure the owner was well aware of that. He loved the smell of old paper, the dust motes hanging in the air, the ladders against the shelves, the labyrinthine set-up, the tea in the break room. He loved the two storeys of literature and history, the cosy carpeting, the quaint trinkets peppering the shelves that (as he had to remind customers at least once a day) weren’t for sale.

It was odd, he thought. Him, a former Shadowhunter, someone who should’ve been itching out of his skin at this boring, menial job. 

Instead, he settled back, watching the street outside as he read his book. 

Contentment. Was this what it felt like? A dangerous thought, and one that almost— _almost_ , but not quite—soured his mood. 

“Morning, Evan,” one of his coworkers—Shaina? Edlyn?—said, setting a cup of tea in front of him. He gave a nod of thanks, not looking up from his book. “Coming out to lunch with us later?”

He shook his head, and she shrugged. They were used to it by now. Most of them had stopped asking. Most, except—

“Which book is that?”

Right on schedule. 

Jonathan sighed inwardly, setting the book down to look up at Adrien. The man leaned against the counter, sunlight lighting half his face and leaving the other half in shadow. He wore a loose t-shirt tucked into trousers, a messenger bag slung across a shoulder. His usual smile, bright and welcoming, adorned his face. 

“What’s it to you?”

Adrien shrugged. “Curious.”

“Shouldn’t you be in a lecture?” Jonathan asked, resigning himself to another morning of aimless conversation. Though, if he was being honest, he found himself rather looking forward to these. At first, they’d been opportunities to brush up on a language he hadn’t used in a while. Now...well. He wasn’t sure why he looked forward to them now.

“Prof cancelled. Something about her daughter being sick.” Adrien rounded the counter, setting his bag on the hook behind Jonathan. He came close enough to kiss Jonathan on the cheek. Not that Jonathan wanted that. Of course not. 

_Temporary,_ he reminded himself, though the reminder lost a fair amount of force with every reiteration. He liked it here, quite a bit. And no one had come looking for him, and he hadn’t heard anyone mentioning his name. 

“Evan?” He started at Adrien’s voice. Adrien studied him with a contemplative look. It had stopped setting him on edge, that look. It’d become just another part of his routine. Just another part of his life. “Come to lunch with me?”

Later, Jonathan would insist it was Adrien’s expression that’d done it. The mix of hope and resignation, like he hadn’t really expected Jonathan to agree, but couldn’t bring himself not to ask. 

Jonathan sighed out loud, slipping a bookmark into the book. “Just this once, then.”

**November 13, 2010**

The safehouse in Amsterdam is a literal house. The two-storey townhouse faces a busy street, the facade a cheerful pastel green. Black window-sills flank a wooden door. It’s quaint, not at all somewhere Clary would expect Jonathan to live. 

“Is this where Sebastian brought you?” Clary asks Jace, voice low. 

“He never actually brought me to Amsterdam,” he admits. “He just mentioned it existed.”

In front of them, Rhiannon hesitates a moment, looking up and down the street. She gives them a look that says, _don’t fuck this up._ Isabelle glares, and Rhiannon sighs. 

“If he gets mad at me for this, I’m blaming all of you,” she warns, unlocking the door with a shockingly normal key. 

“Yeah,” Simon says, hands in his pockets. “That’s fair.”

Rhiannon’s lips twitch. She shoves the door open and steps aside. For a moment, no one moves. There’s the sense of standing on the threshold of some unknown world, a portal to another dimension or the doorway into memory. _Liminal space,_ Clary thinks it’s called. 

She takes a deep breath and steps into the foyer. 

Inside is, once again, shockingly normal. There’s a shoe rack by the door and coat hooks on the wall with jackets and bags. The walls are painted white, ending at the hardwood floors. 

“Shoes off,” Rhiannon says, tapping Clary on the shoulder. “Adrien always insisted, and we’ve kinda just gotten used to it. Easier to clean, anyways.”

“Right,” Clary says, slightly dazed. She toes her sneakers off before wandering farther in.

The open-concept living room has forest green walls and a floor-to-ceiling window; the kitchen has plants on top of the dark wooden cabinets trailing vines towards the countertops. It should’ve been a dark room, but the greens only emphasized the bright sunlight. Books and pens and mugs and pillows clutter the area; dirty dishes sit in the sink. The couch has indents from people sitting on them. Of all the places they’ve been, this is the most lived in. This is a _home,_ in a way the others weren’t. Her chest tightens. 

“Adrien!” Rhiannon calls from behind her. Her voice bounces in the living area. “Where are you, you useless—”

“Look up before you startle the neighbours,” an amused voice says from above them. Clary’s head snaps up to see two people standing against a railing. There seems to be another sitting area upstairs, suspended like a loft. The one who’d spoken was a man in his early twenties, grinning down at them in a way that’s both welcoming and weary. 

Rhiannon rolls her eyes, muttering something about _dramatic entrances,_ and leads them upstairs. 

“So,” Isabelle says as they reach the landing. She crosses her arms, giving Adrien a once-over. “You’re the boyfriend.” 

Clary gives him a critical look. He’s good-looking in a pretty normal way, around Jace’s height with a mop of dark caramel hair and rich bronze skin. He’s wearing a loose crew neck and jeans. He shifts, clearly uncomfortable with the scrutiny. A kid with messy blond hair and wide blue eyes peeks around his legs. Alfie, Rhiannon called him. He catches Clary’s eye and immediately disappears behind Adrien again. 

“I’m the boyfriend,” Adrien says when it becomes clear no one else is going to speak. He has a French accent. “I—Rhi told me you have been looking for Jonathan?” 

“Yep.” Isabelle pops the ‘p’, comically unconcerned. She settles against the railing, looking, to an untrained eye, completely calm. Clary and Simon exchange a look. 

Adrien squares his shoulders, giving their group a once-over. Apparently deciding Simon was the friendliest, he turns to him and asks, “How close are you? We were trying, but—well.” He shifts a little, shoulders slumping. “We aren’t always very good at finding people. That was more his job.” 

Simon’s eyes widen, surprised to be called on. “Uh, well, he—Clary—” 

“All tracking has been blocked.” She remembered trying in Catarina’s apartment, then again with the clues they’d found when no one was looking. “I’m sorry.” 

Looking at the resignation on Adrien’s face, she wonders if Jonathan had known this would happen. This...disappearing act. Had planned for it with the sort of meticulousness she expected from listening to Rhiannon.

Why leave clues if he hadn’t wanted to be found? Why go through all that trouble to hide a trail in plain sight?

Maybe, just this once, Jonathan Morgenstern wants to be found. 

“There’ve been notes or something, everywhere else,” Jace says, fingers drumming absentmindedly on a coffee table. “But you’ve been here the whole time, and nothing’s appeared?” 

Adrien shakes his head. “We’ve been through every room. There is nothing out of the ordinary.” He takes a seat on the couch, giving Clary another tired smile. “I’m sorry we aren’t meeting under better circumstances.”

“Did he ever talk about us?” Clary asks, curious despite herself. 

“Not really. He didn’t like talking about his past, but he said he had a sister and mother in America. He wanted to start over, he said, so he didn’t go to them.” His eyes soften at the memory, lips turning down. “He didn’t want to be in that world anymore.”

Jace sits across from him, fiddling with his sleeve hem. He meets Clary’s eyes, frowning. Clary thinks of Jace saying, _I didn’t think I belonged anywhere, with anyone, until you came around and knocked some sense into me._ Wonders if Adrien did for Jonathan what she was able to do for Jace—give him a place to call home, somewhere to settle down, lay down his armour, if only for a bit. 

“Hey, can you go to your room for a bit?” Adrien asks Alfie, leaning down so they’re level with one another. “You can bring cookies in if you’re careful.”

Alfie’s eyes light up. “Any cookies I want?”

Adrien’s grin brightens, softens into something more alive. “Any cookies you want.”

Alfie cheers, racing out of the room. His footsteps thump down the stairs. Adrien’s expression is fond as he watches Alfie search for plates in the kitchen. The pitter-patter of Alfie running down the hall makes Clary smile. _Children. They have so much_ energy _._

Rhiannon, beside him, says, “You know he’s gonna get crumbs everywhere.”

Adrien waves his hand in dismissal. “You’re back. You can just vanish them.”

“You’re spoiling him.”

“Well, then, Jonathan better get back here as soon as he can, hm?” Adrien’s eyes flash, daring Rhiannon to contradict him. She just huffs, leaning back. 

“Stubborn arse.”

“Reckless witch.”

“I could kick your arse to hell.”

“Then you’d have to cook.”

“Take-away exists.”

Adrien gives her a skeptical look, eyes shining with amusement. “Take-away? For the rest of your long long _long_ life?”

Rhiannon groans, dropping her head back against the cushions and throwing her arms over her face. “Fuck, that isn’t fair, you can do _everything_.”

Adrien chuckles. “That’s what you get for never learning how to do _anything_.” 

Clary watches the back and forth with rapt attention. The banter reminds her of her and Simon; it’s the sort of thing that’s born from familiarity and proximity. They’ve known each other for—Clary does the mental math, eyes narrowing. Jonathan came back in 2008, apparently, met Adrien the same year, she thinks. Two years, then? At most.

“So,” Adrien says, turning back to the Shadowhunters. “Sorry about that. Can I get you anything to drink? Water, tea, coffee? I’d offer vodka, but there’s a ten-year-old child, so anything more alcoholic than wine or beer will have to wait until after his bedtime.”

Isabelle looks impressed despite herself. “Responsible.”

Adrien shrugs. “I have younger cousins. They’ll drink anything that looks like water. Which my aunt found out the hard way.”

Clary claps a hand over her mouth in horror as Jace gives a staccato burst of laughter. Simon’s shoulders shake, and he’s ducked his head to hide his grin. 

“What was it?” Isabelle demands with an expression of horrified fascination. “That your cousin accidentally drank?”

“Oh, one had rum by accident and another had vodka. It was…” Adrien’s lips twitch. “An _interesting_ night, to say the least. But anyways, Jonathan and I decided it would be better not to risk it. So!” He straightens. “Drinks?”

“Coffee,” Clary says immediately. She’s exhausted, and even though they’ll be here for the foreseeable future, she doesn’t plan on sleeping early tonight. Or at all. “Thanks.”

Coffee for Simon, water for Jace, wine for Izzy. Adrien nods, standing to grab their drinks. Jace stands, as well. 

“I should call Alec. See how things are going in New York.” 

Guilt races through Clary, a sharp stab to the heart. Alec stayed behind to redirect Maryse’s attention and keep everything running, and she hasn’t thought about him once in the last...what? Four days? Five?

She buries her head in her hands, fighting a frustrated scream. Five days, and nothing. She knows five days is nothing in the grand scheme of things; it took her _weeks_ to come into contact with Sebastian and Jace when they’d gone missing. And from what she’d heard from Rhiannon (and read from the notebook), Jonathan is better even than Sebastian at hiding. At being perfectly inconspicuous, at blending in, at being _just_ charming enough to get by but not so much as to be memorable. 

“He’s a fucking chameleon,” Rhiannon had said one night. “Honest. He’s got a face like a king, so you’d think people would remember him, but ask most Downworlders in Lyon and they won’t remember they ever saw him.”

Of _course_ it’s going to take more than five days. It had just been going so _well._ She’d just—well. 

“Did the places you checked not have any clues?” Isabelle asks Rhiannon. “I mean, all the places we looked had them.”

“In Rhiannon’s defence,” Simon says, “we wouldn’t have known where to go if we hadn’t happened to go to Bucharest.” A pause. “Also. Who the hell looks at receipts?” Silence meets his words. “Wait, do you guys actually keep your receipts?”

Clary stares at her _parabatai._ “Do you _not_ keep your receipts?”

“I don’t have a credit card! I don’t need them. Do I?” When Clary doesn’t answer, he groans. “By the Angel, I hope I don’t. I’ve shredded them all.”

“I see your point,” Isabelle says, patting Simon’s back consolingly. “But still. Did you really not find anything?”

Rhiannon slumps down. “I went to Lisbon, Glasgow, London, Berlin, Rome, Madrid.” Her voice is monotone as she lists the locations. “Fuck, I really thought we had him, y’know?” Her hair dulls as the energy drains out of her. “I really thought he’d be there.”

“He wouldn’t be Jonathan if he made it easy for us,” Adrien says from behind them. Rhiannon sits up, accepting a steaming mug with a grateful look. His returning smile is sympathetic. He sinks back onto the couch as the others reach for their respective drinks. 

Rhiannon blows out a breath. “I take it back,” she says, turning her head to look at Adrien. “You’re not the arsehole. He is. Absolute prick for making us chase after him like mice in a maze.”

“You’re only saying that because I made you tea,” Adrien says, amused. 

Rhiannon sips her tea. 

“We can pay you back for takeout,” Simon says, out of the blue. At everyone’s bemused glances, he shrivels. “I just meant—I mean, you didn’t know you’d have a bunch of teenagers staying in your house. It’s not really fair to ask you to cook for us, right? Like, we can figure out food on our own—”

Adrien waves away his protests. “ _Non._ Don’t be foolish. I wouldn’t be a good host if I didn’t cook for my guests. My mother would kill me.”

“Are you sure?” Clary’s really only asking to be polite. She’ll take free food anyday. But Simon does raise a good point. There’s a pretty big difference between cooking for two and cooking for seven. 

He shrugs. “It’ll give me something to do besides worry. Dinner is just stew tonight anyways, nothing too complicated. It’s already cooking.” He pauses, expression shifting as if something just occurred to him. “Unless you would prefer a restaurant. I can—There are a few good ones not too far from here—”

“No, whatever you make is fine,” Isabelle reassures him. _Free food,_ she mouths at Clary when Adrien looks away with poorly-concealed relief. Clary smirks, hides it with a cup of coffee. Maybe staying here for a bit wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

**September 23, 2008**

Jonathan was not nervous. No. Of course not. He’d fought demons, died twice, survived his father and Lilith and Hell. Of course he wasn’t nervous for a _date_. 

But for fuck’s sake, did he look better in the grey shirt or the green?

The doorbell rang out, echoing in the apartment, and Jonathan cursed. He groaned, staring down at the shirts. Grey or green? _Oh, fuck it all to hell._ He yanked on the green shirt, buttoning it up as fast as he could and grabbing his trench coat. He opened the door—

And froze. 

Adrien was dressed in a soft-looking cream sweater and carefully pressed trousers, a messenger bag over his shoulder. His hair was artfully tousled, almost black in the shadows of the hallway. He leaned against an umbrella, casual and elegant. Jonathan’s mouth went dry. 

_What the hell am I doing?_ he despaired silently. _Why the hell did I agree to this?!_

Adrien was giving Jonathan a slow once-over, lips parted. Jonathan didn’t miss the way Adrien’s eyes lingered on his legs (he’d _known_ those jeans would be a good purchase), and suppressed a smirk. The burst of confidence was welcome. His mind stopped spinning furiously, slowly coming back online. 

“Like what you see?” he teased, leaning against the doorjamb and crossing one ankle over another. Adrien mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _holy fucking shit_ in French. Jonathan fought back a pleased smile. 

Adrien cleared his throat. “You’re ready, then?” he asked, voice slightly hoarse. 

“Of course.” Jonathan stepped out, reaching back to close the door. “Oh, shit, wait!” He shoved the door back open, grabbing his wallet. “Right, now I’m good.”

Adrien offered his arm like a Victorian suitor once they reached the lobby. “ _Monsieur?”_

Jonathan clapped a hand over his mouth as laughter burst out of him at the ridiculousness of it. Adrien smiled, wide and pleased, at the laughter. 

Jonathan reached over and took Adrien’s arm, stepping close. “So,” he said as they started out into the Lyon evening. “Where are you taking me?”

“Well, you hate fancy restaurants.” Jonathan made a face. He didn’t _hate_ them. Adrien gave him a pointed look. “You glared at everything when we went with my friends. And you think they’re pretentious and anxiety-inducing because there are never any prices and everyone expects you to be quiet and polite.”

Shit. He _had_ said that, hadn’t he?

“Alright, so?”

“So,” Adrien said, turning them around the corner. Jonathan tensed slightly, only relaxing once he’d made sure no Downworlders or threats were present. He had knives in his coat, but he’d prefer not to need them. “I thought we could go to that restaurant, the one by the river, and get takeout and eat by the river?” 

That sounded idyllic, actually. Like something out of a dream. Jonathan almost laughed. He, Jonathan Morgenstern, was going to have a romantic dinner by the river with a beautiful man. 

When Jonathan didn’t respond, Adrien said, sounding worried, “You said you didn’t want anything fancy, but—”

“Would it be too early to kiss you?” Jonathan interrupted. He’d figured out, well before he agreed to the date, that Adrien fascinated him. Entranced him. Something about the way Adrien wore his heart on his sleeve, the way he could make Jonathan laugh, the way he did everything with a simple honesty Jonathan wasn’t used to. 

He’d also figured out that he might be a little in love with Adrien. 

_In for a penny, in for a pound,_ he’d thought. 

Adrien stared at him, mouth agape. They’d stopped in the middle of the street. People moved past them, uncaring of the crisis happening in their midst. 

“You—I—Really?”

Jonathan shrugged, trying to affect nonchalance. He’d let go of Adrien’s arm. His heart was pounding; he was fairly sure his hands were shaking. It wasn’t that he’d never kissed anyone. Sebastian had been...fairly active in that department. But he’d never kissed anyone as himself. 

“You can refuse—”

“No, I want to,” Adrien said in a rush, eyes wide and dark. “I just didn’t—Really? You really want to kiss me? You aren’t just here to let me down easily?”

“I’m sorry, did you _think_ I agreed to a date so that I could let you down easily?” Jonathan scoffed. “Please. I know I’m socially inept, but even _I_ think that’s a tad bit much.” He bit his lip, already starting to step away. “Look, never mind, where’s the restaurant?”

“Evan.” 

Jonathan’s gut twisted at the name, at the reminder that as real as this was, their relationship had lies at its foundation. He shoved the thought back. _It’s to keep us both safe,_ he told himself. 

Adrien had latched onto his sleeve, loosely enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. Jonathan turned to face him, breath stalling when he found him far closer than he’d been before. Adrien brought a hand up to cup his cheek, so, so gentle. The warm lights overhead turned his eyes molten. Jonathan’s gaze dropped to his lips, watching as Adrien licked them. _Oh, I am_ so _fucked._

He lowered his head, heart hammering in his chest.

Adrien’s lips were a little chapped. He tasted like mint and chocolate. Jonathan’s lips parted as he pressed closer, hands on Adrien’s chest, Adrien’s arms coming up to circle his waist. He moaned as Adrien’s tongue explored his mouth, biting Adrien’s bottom lip in retaliation. Adrien’s arms tightened around him as he gasped. Jonathan slid a hand into Adrien’s hair, leaving the other one on his shoulder. 

He was soaring, flying, dizzy. He was high on the taste of Adrien, on the feeling of Adrien’s body against his—

Adrien pulled away, chest heaving. He leaned his forehead against Jonathan’s, a breathless laugh escaping his lips. 

“Hell of a first kiss,” he whispered. Jonathan almost giggled at the intimacy of it, then at his own ridiculousness. 

“Hell of a first kiss,” Jonathan agreed, voice pitched low. Possessiveness drove back any self-consciousness he might’ve had about making out in a crowded street. This was _theirs_ ; the passers-by had no place in it. 

The moment was broken by a particularly loud growl from Adrien’s stomach. He leapt back, face turning bright red. Jonathan stifled a laugh, holding out his hand. 

“So,” he said. “Restaurant?”

“Yes. Food. Right. This—It’s this way.” Raziel, even Adrien’s stumbling was endearing. Another piece of honesty that left Jonathan more hopelessly entangled than before. He was so used to people with armour, with masks, people who wouldn’t be caught dead stuttering or lost or in the wrong. 

The date went smoothly, after that. True to his word, Adrien took them to a restaurant by the Saône that sold takeaway in cute little packages that Jonathan was disappointed he had to throw away. They ate on the bank of the river, sitting on a blanket Adrien had pulled out of his bag with a flourish. They talked about Adrien’s family—Taiwanese mother, French father, no siblings—and Adrien’s courses—archaeology and ancient history. They talked about books and dreams and opinions on starlight. 

It was well-lit by the rose-gold glow of the streetlights above; the white noise of cars and pedestrians lulled Jonathan into an unfamiliar sense of security. That, and the wine they’d bought from a shop, deciding their date wasn’t complete without at least _some_ alcohol.

Jonathan blamed that for being why he was comfortable enough to say, “There are some things you should probably know about me.”

Adrien paused mid-sip, turning to lean against a tree. Jonathan set his cup down, fighting the urge to fidget or run. _This is a terrible idea,_ he thought. 

“I don’t think there’s anything you could tell me that would scare me away,” Adrien said, voice thoughtful. His expression was open, patiently waiting for Jonathan to talk. 

_My name isn’t Evan Loran. I’m not completely human. People want to kill me._ Jonathan discarded the first two. The last one, though. The last one might bear mentioning. Especially if Adrien was serious about staying. 

He’d already spun so many lies. One more couldn’t hurt, especially not when it was mostly truth, anyways. Mundanes had mafias, right? That was close enough to what the Circle had been, right? The upper levels of a criminal syndicate?

“My father was...not a good man.” The words were almost impossible to force out. His breath shuddered on the way out; his lungs were constricting, but he forced himself to continue. “He wanted me to be ruthless, and heartless, and he…” _Hit me. Beat me. Isolated me._

_Broke me._

Jonathan flinched at a touch on his hand. Adrien started to draw back, lips forming an apology, but Jonathan grabbed his hand and held on tightly. 

“He taught me to do, and be, a lot of things I didn’t want to do, or be. And I look in the mirror, and I see _him—”_ Sebastian, Valentine, they blended together now, in Jonathan’s head— “and I see who he made me, and I can’t—I can’t look in mirrors anymore, and it’s stupid, but it’s…” He trailed off, shaking his head. _Valentine. Focus on Valentine._

“He’s dead, now, but the people who worked for him are still alive.” Jonathan stared at the crack in the ground, at the weeds pushing through grass. He knew he was breathing too quickly, knew he needed to find some way to calm down, but if he stopped now, he’d never be able to say it again. And Adrien needed to know, before he decided if he wanted anything to do with Jonathan. “They were looking for me, before I came here. They’re probably still looking for me. And if they find me, if they find _us_ , they’ll—” 

His voice broke, cracked down the middle like a lightning-struck tree. “They’ll—” He couldn’t say it. _Idiot,_ his mind screamed. _Why are you telling him this? You’ll summon them, talking about them, you’ll bring them right to his doorstep—_ He drew in breath after breath, fighting for the words. “Adrien, they’ll _kill us,”_ he finally managed to say. “And I shouldn’t have kissed you—that wasn’t fair of me—not when I’ve got people like that after me—”

“Evan.” 

_That’s not my name!_ Jonathan wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. This was all the truth he could afford to give Adrien, and it was already breaking Jonathan along his fault lines. 

“You shouldn’t— _fuck,_ this was a bad idea—you’re not—”

 _“Evan.”_ Adrien framed his face with his hands, leaning close. His usual good cheer had vanished, replaced by somber intensity. “You’ve been here for months, yes?” Jonathan nodded, holding tight to Adrien’s wrists even as he thought, _I should let him go before it’s too late._ “And no one has come for you?” He nodded again, still struggling to breathe. “Evan.” His voice softened. “If they have not found you yet, they probably won’t find you at all.”

“You don’t _know_ them, they’ll find me eventually—” He broke off, looking at Adrien. Confusion lanced through him. “Why aren’t you running away?”

Adrien gave him a crooked grin, thumb gently stroking his cheek. “You haven’t said anything that scares me enough for me to run.”

“But I—” How was he not afraid? Jonathan was always fucking terrified, always looking over his shoulder, locking the three locks on his apartment door, sleeping with a knife under his pillow. “If you aren’t afraid, you’re—”

“A fool?” Adrien took his hand and kissed his palm, lips lingering. “I’d be more of a fool to leave you to fend for yourself. We French are a chivalrous lot.”

Despite himself, Jonathan snorted, and he could breathe again. “Bull _shit_.”

Adrien’s smile lit up his face, burning away the last of Jonathan’s resolve like sunlight melted snow. Jonathan felt it against his skin, in his heart. His pulse still raced, but whatever panic had released his lungs. 

He exhaled, sagging against Adrien. Adrien’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, tucking him into Adrien’s side. 

“I’m sorry I ruined the date,” Jonathan said, voice muffled. 

Adrien kissed his cheek, hands rubbing his arms, up and down, the repetitive motion soothing. “You have nothing to be sorry for, _renard_.”

“Why _renard?”_

“Because you’re clever and cute and you scream like a fox when a book destroys you and think no one’s listening.”

Jonathan sat up, indignant. “I do _not—”_

Adrien was laughing, the sound like starlight reflected in a mountain lake. Jonathan wanted to record that sound, play it over on nights his memories made him a living ghost until it wiped away the darkness. 

“The face you make when you’re insulted,” Adrien wheezed, “is the same one foxes make when they’re upset. It’s adorable.”

“I am _not_ adorable.”

“No, you are.” Adrien got himself under control, shoulders still shaking periodically. “You’re—you’re beautiful, and pretty, and adorable. But more than that, you are worth every bit of danger I might be in by staying.”

“Adrien—”

“ _Non._ Evan.” Adrien took Jonathan’s hands, voice earnest. He leaned in close, lips inches away from Jonathan’s. “Don’t be afraid anymore, _renard._ I’ll be here, and if they try to come for you, I’ll keep you safe.”

 _You can’t,_ Jonathan thought, helpless. He couldn’t even keep himself safe. 

Adrien read the uncertainty in his eyes. He leaned in further, pressed his lips to Jonathan’s in a quick, chaste kiss. Like a promise, or a key in a lock. 

“Don’t be afraid anymore,” he whispered. 

And maybe Adrien was a bit magic after all, Jonathan thought, closing his eyes, because he didn’t feel quite so afraid anymore after all. 

**November 13, 2010**

Clary isn’t actively seeking Adrien out. She’s just getting used to the space. You know, wandering, exploring, all that jazz. And he just happens to be sitting on the couch with a book and a mug of tea.

“You want to know what he is like,” Adrien says in the quiet, sparing Clary from having to find some way to break the silence. 

She nods, not trusting herself to speak. Adrien settles back, setting down his book. He pats the couch beside him in invitation. 

“What do you want to know?”

 _Everything. Anything._ She shrugs, drawing her knees to her chest. Her sweater’s fraying; it’s convenient for moments like this, when she needs something to fidget with. 

“When I knew him,” Clary says, “he—Sebastian—was corrupted by demon blood and Valentine’s abuse. He was impulsive, cruel, violent, manipulative. I know he isn’t like that now. But he isn’t—there was a boy, right before he died. He said he regretted everything Sebastian had done, that he didn’t want to cause us any more pain. I guess I just...I dunno. Which one is he?”

Adrien pulls one knee to his chest, leaning against the back of the couch. He takes a sip of his tea, eyes thoughtful. 

“I didn’t know him before. I’m a _terrestre,_ a—what do you call us in English? non-magic people? Terrestrials?”

“Mundane?”

“Yes. Mundane.” Adrien offers her a grateful smile. “I’m a mundane, so I wasn’t involved in any of the wars. I didn’t know any of it happened until I moved into _le quart de magie_. I still don’t know all of it.” His expression darkens. “I know hundreds died. I know it left a scar, and created divisions that may never heal, but I do not know all of it. Rhi wouldn’t tell me, and I could never be so cruel as to force Jonathan to talk about it. He’s—it haunts him, you know, all of that. Sebastian. But he could never be cruel like that. Well,” he amends, “he can be cruel, but not without reason.” Clary waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. 

Instead, he says, “He is someone who loves with every piece of him and still doesn’t think he deserves even a quarter of the same, someone who would tear himself apart and patch us up with the pieces.” He shrugs. “I’m sorry I cannot tell you this better. It’s hard to explain—wait. I have photos, wait here.” He thrusts the mug at her; the moment Clary has a tentative grasp on it, he’s up and running. “Rhi! _Les photos avec Jonathan, où sont-ils?”_

Clary hears a faint reply and settles in to wait. Moments later, Adrien re-emerges from a bedroom, carrying a carved wooden box. It’s flipped open, and he’s sorting through pictures as he sits down. He closes it, holding it out to her. 

“Trade you,” he says, holding a hand out for his mug. 

Clary seizes the box like a lifeline, flipping it open. Inside is a thick stack of photos, taken in various European locations. She grabs a handful and sets them on the couch between them, dealing them like cards. 

One in particular catches her attention. Jonathan sits on the stone railing of a bridge, back against a light-post and leg dangling over the edge. In ripped skinny jeans and an open trench coat, he looks like a mundane. He’s smiling at the camera, bright and uninhibited, the sort of smile that’s seconds away from becoming a laugh. It changes his whole face. Makes him look softer. Truer. 

“Ah,” Adrien says, following her line of sight. “That one. We were in...I think it was Paris? We were there for about a week. It was over Alfie’s spring break, so we decided to make it a vacation.” A fond smile spreads over his face as he looks down at Jonathan. “Rhi was yelling at him when we took that. Told him he was going to fall into the Seine.” Laughter tinges his voice, along with a tender melancholy. 

“You really miss him.”

Adrien lets out a breath, clutching his mug. “A bit more with every breath. It’s been more than two months, and I still—I keep thinking he’ll walk back through the door. Or I’ll go to pick Alfie up from school and he’ll be there, leaning against a lamp or something. If he—” Adrien breaks off, shaking his head. He stares, unblinking, down at the photos. His eyes are bright with unshed tears. “He—You don’t think he’s—He isn’t—” _Dead_ hangs in the air, unsaid. 

“I don’t know,” Clary says, as gently as she can. She can’t lie to him about this. She knows she’d hated it when people suggested Jace was dead, back when he’d gone missing. But she also knew it would’ve been worse if people had assured her he was alive, and he ended up dead. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know.”

He nods, still looking at the photos. Clary goes back to looking through photos, a bit heavier than she’d been moments ago. 

“This one?” she asks, holding up a photo with all four of them. Rhiannon is glamoured to hide her horns, but her electric blue hair is the same. Adrien has his arm wrapped around Jonathan, and he’s leaning in to say something to Jonathan with a conspiratorial look. Alfie and Jonathan are both looking at the camera, Jonathan with a secretive smile and Alfie with the bright happiness of a child hopped up on sugar. They’re surrounded by snow, all wearing thick clothing.

Adrien sniffles, rubbing his eyes quickly. “Uh, that one? We were—Oh, that was Berlin. November last year, I think. We’d gone to one of the Christmas markets before that.”

They go back and forth for who knows how long, slowly filling in the gaps of Clary’s knowledge. It hurts, more than she’d expected. She stares down at their faces, at the photo Rhiannon had snapped of Jonathan in the middle of laughing at something Adrien had said, at Alfie tugging at Jonathan’s hand, at Adrien and Jonathan dancing in a living room with quiet smiles. 

_Where are you?_ she asks her brother’s smiling face. He looks so _happy._ What happened to make him leave?

And if he really is dead…

No. 

No, she can’t, she can’t think that, she can’t let herself think that. Adrien and Alfie are depending on her and the others to find him. To bring him home. 

Because this is home for Jonathan. That much is increasingly clear. 

“Hoarded books like a dragon hoards gold,” Adrien laughed, pointing to Jonathan’s collection of books. They’d been looking at a picture of Jonathan completely absorbed in a book while Alfie piled LEGO on his knees.

It’s two in the morning by the time they get through all the photos. Clary’s exhausted, but she can’t bring herself to leave. She looks down at the photos. It’d been easier to accept that they might not find him before she’d put a face to a name, before she’d seen all this evidence of a life lived and lived well. 

“I’m sorry we haven’t found him yet,” she says, voice rough. She can’t look away from the fucking pictures.

She sees Adrien shakes his head out of the corner of her eye. “You and him, always apologizing for things that aren’t your fault. I wasn’t expecting you to have found him yet.” 

“I agreed to help—”

“And you are helping. Trust me.” Adrien runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up every which way. “Rhi was about ready to march into whatever headquarters we found and demand answers on her own. I think she was about to mobilize every Downworlder she knew.”

Clary’s lips quirk up, but there’s no humour behind it. She starts to gather the photos to put back, heart sinking in her chest. Adrien stops her with a gentle hand. 

“Keep them,” he says. “I have more.”

Clary looks up, startled. “I couldn’t—”

“Keep them,” he repeats. His eyes gleam. “I will take more when he comes back.”

And Clary breaks. 

She ends up bawling in Adrien’s arms, sobbing over...all of it. Jonathan’s ashes scattered in Lake Lyn, the Morgenstern ring she’s shoved into the bottom of her dresser, the stupid lock of hair her mother used to cry over, the smiling boy in the photos—

“I’m sorry,” she says, over and over. _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ until she isn’t sure what she’s apologizing for anymore. For falling apart. For trying to forget about him. For letting the world vilify him. _I’m sorry, Jonathan, I’m sorry. I didn’t know better, I’m sorry_

There had been a dream, upon entering Edom, a dream with a manor and a wedding and her brother, smiling and healthy. _Raziel,_ she thinks, prays, _Raziel, please don’t let us be too late, please, haven’t we given enough? Hasn’t_ he _given enough?_

Adrien holds her until her sobs peter out, never complaining. He strokes her hair, holds her tight. 

She sniffles, drawing back. “You give good hugs.”

He laughs, surprised. “Younger cousins, remember?” She chuckles through her tears, wiping her eyes. He gathers the photos in a stack. Presses them into her hand. “Keep them, Clary.” His voice is gentle without being condescending. Everything about him is soft, sweet. 

Clary looks at him in wonder. “Where the hell did my brother find you?”

Adrien smiles. “A bookstore. Now, I believe your boyfriend is waiting for you.” He squeezes her hand. “You will find him. I believe it. I cannot—” His voice breaks, and he tries again. “I cannot believe otherwise.”

“I’ll find him,” Clary echoes, both a promise and a prayer. She squeezes his hand back, swallowing hard. “I promise.”

**March 2009**

“I think I’m in love with you,” Adrien said, casual as anything. The rain poured outside, angry and lashing as befitting a southern spring. Jonathan’s hand stilled where it’d been tracing idles circles on Adrien’s shoulder. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath. 

“You can’t be.” He tried to make it sound playful. Coy. It didn’t. 

Adrien shifted back, looking down at him. That look, now familiar, the one that said he was trying to figure Jonathan out but couldn’t quite manage it. Usually, Jonathan found it amusing, but right now, it grated on him.

“Why not, _mon renard_?” He tilted his head, thoughtful. “Do you not think yourself worthy of being loved?” 

Irrational anger burst through Jonathan, a wild mix of rage and grief and genuine fear. _You don’t even know my name_ , he thought, furious. Between one blink and another, he was on his feet, dressed, _don’t wait up_ tossed over his shoulder. He could hear Adrien calling after him. Blocked it out.

He shoved his hands through his hair as he entered the street, pulling his jacket over his head. He’d forgotten an umbrella, of fucking course. Ran out into the rain in nothing but a trench coat, because why not add one more piece of misery to the day?

Adrien couldn’t—he _couldn’t_ be in love with Jonathan. Jonathan was taciturn, and sharp, and terrible at communicating. He got along better with books than people, he was paranoid, he couldn’t sleep through the night, he was a goddamn mess at the best of times and a walking catastrophe at the worst. 

He jammed his hands in his pockets and stalked down the street, scowling and terrified. 

He ended up at the bookstore where he worked, dripping wet and more ashamed than afraid. 

He’d just...left. Ran out. Adrien had been brave enough to confess and Jonathan had just...left. _Coward. You’re a coward._

Edlyn glanced up as he walked in. Surprise flickered in her eyes at his pathetic appearance, but she took it in stride. He liked that about her; even now that he went out with his coworkers sometimes, she still didn’t pry. 

“The heater’s going in the back. Tristan forgot to bring an umbrella, too.” Jonathan nodded, ducking into the back room to shed his wet jacket and make himself a cup of tea. 

He leaned against the counter as he waited for the tea to steep, arms braced against the wood. He should go back. Apologize. It’d been hours. Adrien had to be worried. 

Or maybe this was what it would take to make Adrien see what Jonathan had been telling him for a while. That he was broken. Bent out of shape and frozen. That he couldn’t be fixed, and he couldn’t be loved. 

He buried his head in his hands, forcing himself to take deep breaths. A pit yawned open in his chest, a hole threatening to swallow his heart whole. _This is fine,_ he told himself. _He doesn’t even know your name. It’d be better for everyone if he_ did _leave._ The words rang hollow. He didn’t _want_ Adrien to leave. He wasn’t sure he’d admitted that to himself until now. 

“Do you want to talk about whatever happened?” He turned around, startled. Chesar had stepped into the room and taken a seat at the table. He didn’t come into the shop very often; when he did, it was always to peruse his own collection. An enigmatic man, surely, but a smart one.

“I trust you,” he’d said when Adrien asked why he never checked in on the employees. He’d looked right at Jonathan when he’d said, “You’re all good people.”

The counter dug into Jonathan’s back as he clutched his tea, shivering from rain and regret. He must’ve been quite a sight, hair plastered to his forehead and clothes soaked through. Chesar only nodded at his silence, settling back and cracking open a book. 

This wasn’t the first time Jonathan had ended up here in the middle of some personal crisis. It wasn’t the first time Chesar had found him, either. He had to admit, this was slightly better than last time, when Chesar had found him curled on the ground behind a stack of books. 

“Adrien said he loves me.”

Chesar looked back up, grey eyes piercing. He saw too much, Jonathan had always thought. He saw everything you tried to hide. Maybe not the specifics, but the broad strokes of them. The echoes the secrets left on your heart, he saw those. 

“And so? Did you tell him the same?” Jonathan stayed silent, swallowing against the burn of shame. He took a sip of tea to save himself from having to reply. There was faint rustling as Chesar set down his book. “You ran away, hm?”

Jonathan took a deep breath, and nodded. He stared down at the table, traced the contours of the wood with his eyes. 

“Evan,” Chesar said. He didn’t have Adrien’s gentleness or Rhiannon’s insouciance, but his presence was reassuring nonetheless. Familiar. Brisk, with an undertone of warmth. He was, in short, what Jonathan had always wished Valentine could be. “Do you want him to be in love with you?”

Jonathan’s nose burned as he blinked rapidly, trying to do away with the tears gathering at the edges of his eyes. He took a sip of tea, struggling to breathe in. 

The scrape of a chair. Footsteps. 

Chesar stopped in front of him, taking Jonathan by the shoulders and forcing him to meet Chesar’s eyes. Jonathan almost crumpled at the understanding in his eyes. 

“Do you want him to be in love with you?” he asked again, slower. 

And Jonathan did. _Raziel,_ he did. He’d thought it might’ve been that he wanted to prove—to himself, to the world—that he was enough, that _someone_ could love him, but it was more than that. He couldn’t—didn’t want to—imagine a morning where he woke up without Adrien. Didn’t want to go back to being alone, to an empty apartment and a solitary existence and nothing but writing to keep the monsters at bay.

“I shouldn’t have run,” he said. His voice was hoarse. 

Chesar gave a sharp nod, squeezing his shoulders. Jonathan couldn’t be sure, but he thought he detected a glimmer of pride in Chesar’s eyes. 

“Stay here for another hour,” Chesar said. “Finish your tea. Warm up. Then get some food and go home to your _amoureux_.”

Jonathan would probably have stayed longer than that if Edlyn hadn’t tracked him down after an hour and more or less kicked him out on Chesar’s orders. He couldn’t bring himself to be too upset about that. 

It was late evening when he trudged back up the stairs to his apartment with take-out and wine. And vodka, in case Adrien really was gone. 

_It would serve you right,_ he told himself. He hesitated at his door, keys in hand. What if he really wasn’t there? What if he opened the door and the apartment was empty, and Adrien’s clothes were gone, and that stupid mug Adrien had bought because _you’ll never think it’s yours, it’s too colourful_ was gone, too?

He unlocked the door before he could lose his nerve completely.

The first thing he saw was that Adrien hadn’t left. 

He sat on the couch, nursing a bottle of red wine Jonathan had forgotten he had, staring morosely at the wall. 

The takeout fell to the ground with a thud. The alcohol was set down with only slightly more care. 

“You didn’t leave.” Jonathan heard the relief in his own voice. 

Adrien glanced up, face inscrutable. “ _Non_. I told you before to stop being afraid.” He took a sip of the wine, gesturing to the apartment that had somehow come to belong to both of them. “How am I going to convince you not to be afraid of me if I leave you every time you need me?” 

“I _did_ tell you—” 

“Bah. You didn’t tell me anything. You were scared. People say plenty of things they don’t mean when they’re scared.” 

He stood, remarkably steady, and made his way over to where Jonathan stood in the doorway, jacket still on and damp and bags at his feet. Adrien held a hand to Jonathan’s cheek, looking up into his eyes. Moments like this, it took Jonathan by surprise that Adrien was shorter than him. He always seemed so much taller. Stronger. 

“I don’t mind if you don’t love me yet. Or ever. That isn’t how love works. I’m sorry if you were taught love was something to be afraid of.” Adrien swallowed, leaning his forehead against Jonathan’s. “Do you trust me?” 

Jonathan hesitated. Nodded. Adrien smiled, bright and sweet and soft. Like the sun emerging from behind clouds, or the first glimpse of land after weeks lost at sea. _Mon moitié,_ Jonathan thought, a little wild. _My better half._

“Then trust that I will not hurt you.” 

“There are…” He paused, fiddling with Adrien’s shirt hem. “There are still a lot of things you don’t know about me.” 

“What, that you’ve got a whole weapons room in the back?” 

Jonathan’s head snapped up. His heart pounded a furious rhythm, once familiar, now not. _Complacent. You’ve gotten complacent—_

Adrien rolled his eyes. “Stop. Stop panicking. I was looking for the bathroom the first time I stayed over.” 

The first time—”That was six months ago!” 

Adrien laughed. “I know. I thought, like, maybe he’s just super into hunting or something. But that isn’t it, is it?” He sobered, serious as he rarely was. His hand dropped to rest on Jonathan’s chest, over his heart. “Rhi told me, eventually. I wouldn’t stop asking her. I’m not—You don’t live in Lyon without knowing about des _chasseurs d’ombres_.” Jonathan’s heart sank. He started to step away, and this time, Adrien let him. But Adrien didn’t look away. “I kept wondering when you’d tell me. You stopped covering the rune, and I thought that meant—but you never said anything. And I didn’t want to ask—” 

“Who sent you.” 

Jonathan barely recognized his voice, flat and empty. Or rather, he recognized it. But not as his. He could barely hear past the roaring in his ears, his harsh breathing. 

Confusion lit Adrien’s eyes. “What?” 

“You know about the Shadow World, you know about Shadowhunters, which means you know about me and you’ve known I’m not Evan _fucking_ Loran for months, maybe you always have, so who sent you to watch me.” He wrapped his arms around himself, as if flesh and bone was enough to keep him from falling apart. _I should’ve known, should’ve known he was too good to be true, should’ve known not to get attached—_

How far could he get, if Adrien tipped them off about where he was? By the Angel, he was a fool. They’d told him, they’d told him they’d find him wherever he went. They’d laughed while he ran.

“What do you mean, I know about you? Jonathan—”

Jonathan flinched at the name, squeezing his eyes shut. Jonathan, he’d said, not Evan, so he’d known, he’d known, he’d fucking known and he’d still held onto Jonathan like he mattered, had still looked at him like that, and Jonathan couldn’t believe how naive he’d been— 

_Do you want him to be in love with you?_ and he had, he had, and he should’ve known the moment he wanted something, it would all go to hell—

“—all I know is that your father was involved in some sort of criminal activity and his associates are looking for you.” The words took a moment to click. Jonathan’s eyes snapped open. _Did he not—_ They stared at each other, one in thinly veiled concern and the other with barely concealed panic. 

“What?” they asked simultaneously. 

“Wait, wait, did you think I worked for them?” Adrien looked torn between laughter and concern. “I get winded walking up the stairs. My back hurts after carrying a box of books. Do you really—wait, do you really think some terrible evil gang would hire me?” 

When he put it like it, it did sound rather ridiculous. The panic cleared, just enough for Jonathan to _think._

“Maybe you’re just the one who’s supposed to keep me where I am,” Jonathan argued, more for the hell of it than because he believed it. Looking at him, really looking, at all the mundane softness and fearlessness and warmth, all the fight drained out of him, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion instead. His shoulders slumped. 

_I’m sorry I’m a paranoid mess. I’m sorry I can’t think straight sometimes._

_I’m so tired of being afraid._

Adrien made to step forward before stopping himself. “Look, I don’t—I know I shouldn’t have asked Rhi. It wasn’t my business—” 

“No,” Jonathan interrupted, bending slowly to pick up the takeout and alcohol. Maybe he’d have the vodka anyways. He’d aged years in the span of a day. “I would’ve done the same if I’d found a stash of weapons in my boyfriend’s apartment.” A humourless smile. “I’m surprised you didn’t run there and then.” 

Adrien grinned, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Thought about it. But your bed’s a lot nicer than mine. Definitely worth getting murdered for.” 

Jonathan laughed at that, a sharp slightly-hysterical sound. Adrien stood back as he deposited everything onto the counter, arms held close like he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure it’d be welcome. Jonathan sighed and turned around, holding his arms out. 

“C’mere.” 

Adrien’s smile was small but genuine as he crossed the narrow foyer, wrapping his arms around Jonathan. 

“So we’re okay?” 

“We’re okay.” Jonathan buried his face in the crook of Adrien’s neck. “I’m sorry I ran. And accused you of being a spy. And yelled at you. And—” 

Adrien kissed his cheek. “I know you are. I’m not mad.” 

“I would be.” 

“You get mad about the cafe not having the drink you like. You’re a little ball of rage, _mon renard_.” 

“...thanks?” 

Adrien chuckled. 

A comfortable silence settled around them, interrupted by the crackling of logs in the fireplace. The vodka stayed untouched. Jonathan turned his head, breathing in Adrien’s laundry detergent and cologne and something that was purely and simply Adrien. 

After the Angel knew how long, Adrien cleared his throat. “So I _can_ call you Jonathan, right? Y’know. Your actual name?” 

Jonathan elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t be an arse.” 

“It’s a serious question! I mean, do you really want me to call you Evan when we—” 

“Alright, alright, alright!” Jonathan’s ears burned. “I get the idea. Call me whatever the hell you want, I don’t care, as long as you—” _As long as you keep calling me yours_ , he almost said. He broke off, mortified. The hell was wrong with him? He cleared his throat, pulling away to take out the food. “I’ve never been attached to names, anyways.”

Adrien made a thoughtful noise.

“Where did you go, anyways?” Adrien asked as they settled onto the couch. Jonathan scooted over until he was leaning against Adrien, needing the touch after the mess today had been. 

“Bookstore,” he admitted. 

Adrien chuckled, the sound warming Jonathan to the bones. “Should’ve known. You always end up where the books are. Was Chesar there?”

“Mmhmm.”

“He have anything to do with why you came back?” 

Jonathan made a noncommittal noise. He’d have to send Chesar a gift of some sort for all the free counselling.

“Adrien.”

“ _Ouais?”_

“I do, you know. I know I can’t say it yet, but—”

Adrien stopped him with a soft kiss. “I know. You wouldn’t have come back if you didn’t.”

Jonathan sat up, looked him in the eye. There was a promise he needed to make, for himself and for Adrien. 

“I’ll always come back to you, if you want me,” he said. His food lay forgotten. “If I ever go missing, or leave—”

“Jonathan—”

“No, listen.” He forced himself to focus on his words, not on how fucking _good_ it felt to have Adrien call him his actual name. _Not attached to names, my arse._ “Listen. I’ll come back, alright? Even if it seems like I won’t, I’ll come back. And if I can’t, I’ll make sure you can find me if you need me. I swear it.”

Adrien kissed the back of his hand. “I believe you.” The smile that spread across Adrien’s face was equal parts awed and fond. “I believe you.”

“Good.” Jonathan shoved aside his misgivings, his _you’re being a fool to let him stay_ ’s. For now, he had this. For now, he refused to worry about what could happen, what could go wrong. He’d done that enough today. 

_Let them come,_ he found himself thinking. _Let them come, and if they touch a hair on his head, I will burn them to the ground_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh...if you find an armory in your significant other's/friend's place...DON'T be like Adrien. Run. Just run.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://aceass1n.tumblr.com/), if you want.


	7. A Life Bundled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domesticity, domesticity, domesticity galore. Also, some violence. You know what they say—the family that fights together, stays together. Or something like that.
> 
> TW: violence, implied torture, mentions of past child abuse, implied human trafficking (it doesn't happen to anyone, but there's potential for it to have happened in the past)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And FINALLY, we get to see how the hell Jonathan ended up with a kid. And some more of Clary bonding with the adorable little family she's stumbled upon.
> 
> Chapter title from little beast by Richard Siken
> 
> Song:  
> Bury me facedown—grandson

**November 14, 2010**

Clary supposes it was only a matter of time before Jace and Isabelle got restless and started looking for training rooms. They’d all been too drained over the last few days to look, but now...

It started as an innocuous comment from Jace. “Hey, is there a gym nearby?” he’d asked Adrien at breakfast. 

“A few in the area,” Adrien had said, setting a piece of toast in front of Alfie. “I don’t have any memberships, though, so I can’t tell you how good they are.”

Then another throwaway statement from Isabelle, while they were exploring Amsterdam on foot that morning. 

“No wonder they didn’t need training facilities,” she’d said, hiking up a hill. “Walking around must’ve kept ‘em both in shape.” Her lips had pursed. “But. That doesn’t explain how Jonathan was still capable enough to assassinate people without getting caught.”

In hindsight, Clary really should’ve seen this coming. 

“C’mon, it’ll be _good_ for you!” Jace insists, looking a bit manic surrounded by weapons in a training room in the townhouse. It takes up the entire basement, with air ducts for circulation and high ceilings. “We’ll be right back to patrols once we get back to New York. Can’t get rusty.”

Adrien, leaning against the doorway, makes an amused sound. Clary turns to glare at him, only to find him muffling a laugh. Beside her, Simon gives Isabelle a resigned look. 

“Is there any way for me to refuse? Like, I dunno, I’ll tell you what I have planned for the next three D&D sessions.”

“You told me you hadn’t planned them yet!” Clary exclaims, outraged. 

Simon holds his hands up in surrender. “You didn’t threaten me with physical activity!”

It doesn’t work, in any case. Clary groans, peeling herself off the wall. _Well,_ she thinks mournfully, _it was nice while it lasted._

“Remember when we were just nerds that never exercised?” Simon mutters as they make their way to the others. 

Clary sighs. “Better days, my friend,” she says, only half-joking. “Better days.”

Simon snorts. 

By the time they take a break, Clary’s dripping sweat and everything hurts. She winces as she bends down to pick up her water. Behind her, the sounds of footsteps bounce off the walls as Isabelle and Jace start up again. 

Clapping distracts her from her well-earned break. She glances up to find Rhiannon watching the Shadowhunters, one corner of her mouth quirking up. Her hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, and she has a sword in her hand. 

She jerks her head towards the ring, eyes on Adrien. “When was the last time you sparred?”

Adrien’s eyes widen. “No, no, no, hold on—”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” Rhiannon’s already moving. “You get to pit yourself against the _great_ Jace Herondale!”

Clary chokes on her water. Sarcasm drips from the warlock’s voice, but her eyes gleam with real amusement. 

“Look, man, I suffered already,” Simon says. “Your turn.”

“I—” Adrien looks around, searching for allies. Finding none, his shoulders slump. He turns to Rhiannon, expression stern. “ _One round._ And I’m not fighting him. _”_ He points at Jace.

“Why not?” Jace calls, indignant.

Adrien gives him a look. “I’d like to live to see my partner come home, thanks.”

“What about him?” Rhiannon points to Simon, who freezes. 

Adrien gives Simon a considering look. “I guess he’d be alright.”

“Good luck,” Clary stage-whispers as Simon groans. 

He points a finger at her. “Watch it, Fairchild.”

She hides a smile behind her water bottle as he heads back into the centre of the room. Adrien gives the door a longing look before shaking his head and following him into the middle of the ring. 

Clary watches with mild surprise as Adrien spars with Rhiannon first. She hadn’t realized he knew how to fight. He handles himself without the ease of a Shadowhunter, but with acceptable proficiency. He’s light on his feet, always watching Rhiannon. When Simon joins for two-on-one, Adrien struggles a bit more, but he manages to hold his own. Clary’s impressed. 

And Rhiannon...well. It seems magic isn’t her only weapon. She fights without the finesse of a trained Shadowhunter, but it’s undeniably effective. She fights dirty, using everything around her to her advantage. She isn’t as agile as Adrien, but she makes up for it with sheer strength. Clary almost asks for tips. 

Adrien grins when they break for water, seeing Clary’s expression. “Jonathan taught me.” He picks up his water bottle, leaning against the wall beside her. “He said, if I was going to insist on enabling his—what’s the word? like foolish, but worse, more dangerous—”

“Reckless?” Jace suggests from across the room. He’s breathing hard, but he’s smiling. Clary’s lips twitch at the sight. He looks happier. Lighter. _Maybe this was a good idea, after all._

“Yes. That. If I was going to enable his reckless tendencies, I had to know how to defend myself.” Adrien’s smile fades, leaving him looking a bit lost. “He did always say he might not always be here to protect us.” 

Clary’s chest tightens. She could almost be looking in a mirror at herself, years ago, passing sleepless nights and helpless days looking for Jace. She’d spent two weeks looking for Jace; Adrien had spent over a month looking for Jonathan. 

“We’ll find him,” she finds herself saying, an echo of the night before. 

She watches as Adrien pulls himself together, offering her an unconvincing smile. “I hope so.” 

**July 27, 2009**

“You’re sure you can watch him?” Jonathan asked for the fifth time. 

Catarina rolled her eyes, taking him by the shoulders. She was almost her height, so it wasn’t hard for her to look him in the eye. 

“Yes,” she says, emphatic. “You know, I _have_ babysat before.”

“Yes, I know, but—” He waved his arms wildly. Alfie sat at the couch, a box of LEGO opened in front of him. His shoulders slumped, and he sighed. “Alright. Thank you. Really.”

She waved away the gratitude. “I told you I’d help if you needed anything. Go. Be careful.”

He nodded, stepping out of the apartment. 

“Have fun!” he shouted into the apartment. Alfie gave him an absentminded wave, already absorbed in his LEGO set.

It was a two-hour drive to the headquarters. Adrien was tense, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel; Rhi fiddled with a knife in the back seat. Her magic coiled around her hands in silvery threads. Jonathan’s leg bounced up and down, unable to sit still. 

What if they were wrong? What if they’d been deceived? What if it was a trap? 

His jaw clenched. He was hyper-aware of the knives in his jacket, his boots, the short-sword at his back. The last two times he’d run into these people, he’d been barely armed. This time, he was prepared. Prepared, but also far more vulnerable, he thought, glancing at Adrien out of the corner of his eye. 

“You can still drive back after you drop us off,” Jonathan tried, one last time.

Adrien shook his head. “I told you. We do this together.”

Jonathan sighed inwardly. Worth a try. 

The headquarters rose up in front of them as Rhi stripped the glamour away. Glamours weren’t like wards; there wouldn’t be any sign that they were gone unless someone from the outside alerted people within. At least, that was what they were banking on. 

It was a small, squat building, two floors and brick. It looked like a regular apartment building, but far better maintained than the buildings around it.

Adrien parked half a block away. “Ready?” 

Jonathan took a deep breath, grounding himself. The pounding of his heart had stopped feeling like a death knell; now, it was the beat of a war drum. He’d been a Shadowhunter for seventeen years. Fights, he knew how to do.

“Ten people here,” Rhi reminded them. “Get in, get them, get out. Don’t do anything stupid.” She looked right at Jonathan as she said that, and he stuck his tongue out at her. Adrien snorted. She rolled her eyes. “Alright. If anyone needs help, break this. Not with your teeth, it’s more or less pure magic.” She held something out to them. Jonathan took it, weighing it in his hand. It looked like a pill capsule, but silver magic swirled within. “If one breaks, the others should turn blue. It’ll lead the rest of us to you.”

Jonathan nodded as Adrien tucked his own into a pocket. 

Rhi took a deep breath, forcing her shoulders to relax. The drumming of her fingers was the only sign of her restlessness. 

“Okay.” She met their eyes, exhaling hard. “In we go, then.”

“Once more unto the breach,” Jonathan muttered as he stepped out of the car. Adrien coughed, hiding his laughter. Rhi gave him a dirty look, muttering something about _Shadowhunters and their damn memory_. 

Inside, it was well-lit with carpeted floors. Jonathan swallowed hard, blinking back memories of the place he’d been kept for over a month. His scars twinged. _Focus._

Adrien gave his forearm a squeeze and disappeared down a hall with Rhiannon. Jonathan continued straight. 

He opened every door, checked every cupboard. They needed information, and they needed to take out this branch of the network. He’d just found an office when a blaring alarm cut through the preternatural silence. 

_Shit_.

He glanced at his pill, but it was still silver. They were alright, then. He skimmed the papers, searching for any maps or correspondence, but all the papers seemed to be files about the running of this place. Could they be coded?

 _Not enough time,_ he thought, rifling through the drawers. _Move on._

He grabbed a ring of keys, and opened the door. He didn’t bother putting it back in order; no one would be left to care.

“What—” Jonathan was brought up short by a stout man, probably in his early thirties, staring at him. He had a gun. His eyes widened as he recognized Jonathan. He started to raise his gun—

Jonathan lunged forwards, unsheathing a knife. He stabbed him in the chest, knife angled up to pierce his heart. The gun went off, shot going wild. The man looked at him in horror as Jonathan pulled the knife out. 

“Tell my father I said hello,” he murmured into the man’s ear, seconds before the man’s eyes went blank. Distantly, he registered that he should probably feel bad about killing a man in cold blood. 

Jonathan wiped the blade on his sleeve. After a second of consideration, he tossed the gun out a nearby window. One fewer weapon for his opponents. 

He left the man sprawled in the hallway and stepped into the next hallway. This one, unfortunately, was not empty. One, two, five—

 _Ten people,_ he thought, almost laughing at their naiveté. They should’ve known there’d be more. 

He unsheathed his knives, a once-familiar coldness settling over him. _Battle coldness,_ Jace had called it. They stared at him, at the blood drying on his hand and knife. 

“ _Sie_ ,” the one closest to him said, tone somewhere between alarmed and enraged. Jonathan thought he recognized him from Geneva. 

“Yes,” Jonathan agreed, voice pleasant. “Me.”

The man snarled, and everything leaped into motion. 

Spin. Duck. Stab. Block. Jonathan sidestepped one woman, using her momentum to send her into her coworker’s sword. A knife caught his sleeve as he spun away. Stab. Block. Parry. He focused on his breathing. Training alone had ensured he stayed in shape, but it was no substitute for actual fights, and he hadn’t been in one of those in a while. 

_Focus_.

It took far more time than he’d hoped to win, and he’d taken more hits than he’d hoped to. A cut on his arm bled sluggishly; his face stung where a knife had glanced across his cheek. His breath rattled in his lungs. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his Shadowhunter blood singing at the action. _More,_ it demanded, _more, more, more._

He stepped over a body, glancing down. Blue emanated from his pocket. For a moment, he stared at it, confused. Understanding clicked, and he almost fell over from panic. _Adrien. Rhi._

Jonathan dropped his knives, fumbling with his pocket. The pill capsule glowed blue, pulsing and faint. He swore, clutching it in one hand and scooping up a knife with another. He left the second knife on the ground. He had others. 

Of course, Rhi had neglected to mention _how_ it was supposed to lead him to them. 

He jogged down the hallways, alternating between looking at the pill and looking around him. It glowed fainter if he went left, brighter if he went right. _Oh, so it’s one of_ these _._

He went right. 

Down a hallway. Up the stairs. Sometimes, he encountered Valentine’s people dead or dying. He left them be. 

It glowed brighter, brighter, brighter. Jonathan’s mind spun scenario after scenario, ones where Adrien was bleeding out on a carpet, ones where Rhi was broken on a floor, ones where they were both dead and Jonathan was alone again, completely alone—

He was choking on the weight of all that might be happening.

The pill reached peak luminescence in front of a pair of double-doors. He burst into a room, knives up. 

Adrien was to the left of a sitting room, unconscious. A wound at his temple was leaking blood. He was breathing. The knot in Jonathan’s chest loosened. 

Rhi stood in the centre, sword up. She was bleeding from three different cuts of varying depth and favouring her left. She sneered at the people in front of her, a woman and a man. Two men surrounded them, both staring out with glassy eyes.

Everyone looked up as Jonathan stepped in. Relief flickered across Rhi’s expression before it shuttered back into smug insouciance. The man’s mouth dropped open. 

“ _Du bist ein Dummkopf, hierher zu kommen,”_ the woman said, unfazed.

Jonathan raised his eyebrows, meeting Rhi’s eyes. “What do you think?” he asked conversationally, as if he hadn’t just left the rest of their networks bleeding and bled out in hallways. “Am I a fool to come here?”

Rhi’s smile was sixty percent feral challenge and forty percent genuine amusement. “The woman knocked Adrien out,” she said by way of response.

“Noted.” Jonathan dropped the pill to the ground and tightened his grip on his knives. He studied the people. The woman favoured her right leg, and the wound at her side looked decently deep. He noted her grip on her sword, her eyes tracking his movements, her shallow breaths. 

The man’s eyes darted between him and the woman and the door. _Ah, so_ you’re _the weak link._ Jonathan bit back a smile. He hadn’t found anything in any of the offices, but that was no matter. Not when there were people with perfectly intact brains. Though he’d argue anyone who believed in his father enough to try and raise him from the dead was missing a few crucial brain cells.

“Get Adrien out,” he said. Rhi’s lips turn down, displeased at leaving him. He shook his head. “Rhiannon. Go.”

“You’re being quite free with your names,” the woman said, still in German. 

Jonathan gave her a crooked grin with far too much teeth. She blanched slightly. Good. She should be scared. 

_Shouldn’t have hurt my partner when you came for me,_ he thought. _I might’ve left all of you alone if you hadn’t_. 

Rhi sheathed her sword, a translucent film around her. A shield of sorts. He fancied he could see cracks in the surface, flickering in the afternoon light. She started for Adrien, face grim.

He stepped further into the room, lifting his weapons. A trickle of unease slithered down his spine. Why hadn’t they attacked yet? They’d just stood there, let him and Rhi run their mouths.

The woman watched Rhi leave with narrowed eyes and a quiet smirk. She tapped her sword against her thighs, as if waiting for something. The man shifted from foot to foot. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Rhi said, voice low. “Just kill them and get out.”

He nodded. She gave him a searching look, pulling Adrien closer to her and wrapping his arm more securely around her shoulder. Seconds later, she was gone. 

“Now,” Jonathan said, watching her retreating back. “Why am I still alive? You could’ve attacked at least three times in the last five minutes.”

“We’re supposed to bring you back alive if we find you,” the man said. The woman shot him a look, and he glared back. “What? We’re gonna die anyways. Oh God, we’re gonna die—”

“You’re not going to die,” Jonathan said, softening his voice. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, in his throat, in his calves. The man looked at him, confused, until Jonathan pointed a knife at the woman. “She is.”

And the woman lunged. 

He sidestepped a hair too slowly. Her shoulder caught him in the solar plexus, knocking the wind from him. Gasping, he slashed out towards her exposed right flank. She darted back. Her sword arced through the air; he rolled aside. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man moving in to engage. _Oh, no you don’t._

Jonathan unsheathed a knife and threw. It embedded itself in the man’s hand. Howling, the man dropped his weapon. 

Silver gleamed in his periphery. Jonathan leapt to his feet, darted back, as the sword came down with a whistle. He blocked her next strike with a dagger, spinning under her guard. He drove a knife back—she blocked—she kicked—he dodged—

The rest of the world faded away. Adrenaline coursed through him, pain dulling. The man and the woman pinned him between the two of them, forcing him on the defensive. Not ideal. He avoided one attack, tried to corral the man into the woman’s way. The man, catching on, laughed. Now that the battle had begun, he’d lost his hesitance. 

The misstep, when it came, was so small that Jonathan almost missed it. The woman stepped out with her right to cut down with her sword; her ankle twisted, just a little; her left arm stretched out the smallest amount—

He spun to avoid a blow from the man; switched his grip on the dagger; drove it into her side, deep into her ribs. The woman gasped. Her sword caught him in left arm; he darted back before it could cut too deeply. He only had two knives left, and a stab in the side wouldn’t kill her. Not quickly at least. 

He unsheathed his sword just in time to block the man’s attack. He drove forwards with his remaining dagger. The man skipped out of his way. The whistle of a sword. He jumped aside. The woman missed him by inches. He spun around, aiming for her now-weaker left side with his sword. It caught her as she tried to dodge. 

Dodging the man’s sword, he slammed his shoulder into her chest. She stumbled—he drove down with his sword—

The man screamed as the sword went clean through her chest. Something clattered behind him. Jonathan spun, dagger up to block an attack, to find that the man had dropped his sword. He stared at the woman in blind shock. 

“How did—she was—” He looked back up at Jonathan, blood draining from his face. His bravado disappeared, leaving only fear. He staggered back as Jonathan pulled his sword from the woman’s chest. “Are you—you said you wouldn’t kill me—”

“Mm. I did, didn’t I?” Jonathan sauntered forwards, hoping Rhi had gotten Adrien to the car. Hoped the head wound wasn’t too serious. Those could be rather nasty. “That was _before_ you decided to attack me, though.” 

He stopped as the man’s back hit a wall. The man’s chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes wild. His eyes went to the door. He sprinted for it, feinting to the right, but Jonathan stepped easily into his path. 

“I’m not—I can’t—I don’t—please—”

Jonathan sheathed his sword, keeping his knife out. “There are just some things I want to know…” He raised an eyebrow at the man. The man gave him an uncomprehending look, and he sighed. “Your name, love.”

“Gunter.”

“Gunter. Lovely name. I just want to know a few things, Gunter.” He grabbed the man’s arm, marching him to an armchair. He shoved him into it, standing in front of him. “Where’s the rest of your network?”

“I don’t know!”

Jonathan settled back, sword tip against the floor. “I don’t believe you, Gunter. My father was only tangentially involved in all these matters, which means you lot must’ve known about each other, enough to communicate.”

The man shook his head, frantic. “I don’t—I swear, I don’t know anything, I _don’t_ —”

Jonathan sighed inwardly, raising his knife. “I’m sorry about this, then.”

The man’s eyes widened, pleas falling from his lips as he tried to scoot further back into the seat to get away from him. The pleas became screams, became sobs, before finally—finally—he started talking. 

Every European country had at least one, he said. There were papers in an office to their right that had the location of some of the places in western Europe. The closest ones he knew of were in Nice. They wanted Jonathan alive so they could work their ritual and trade one Morgenstern for another. Valentine was going to bring Shadowhunters back to their former glory; those who helped him would have a place in his blessed world. 

Jonathan scoffed at that. The only people who would have a place in Valentine’s world were the most fanatical of Shadowhunters, and the mundanes foolish enough to drink from the Mortal Cup and follow him. 

He slit the man’s throat. Tucked the papers into his jacket, away from the blood. That had to stay safe. Picked up a random trinket from the floor for Tracking spells from Catarina’s book.

After a moment’s consideration, he picked up his unharmed pill from the ground and tucked it into his pocket. It was interesting magic, that. Might come in useful again.

Rhi’s eyes widened almost comically as he approached the car. Her eyes went from his hands to his hair to his jacket. He’d have to throw the outfit out, he thought vaguely. There was no removing _this_ much blood. 

“ _What did I say?”_ she demanded. 

He handed her the papers. “Got us the next few locations.”

“I _said_ not to do anything stupid—”

“It wasn’t stupid. He was in an armchair. The woman was dead.” At some point, what he’d done was going to hit him, but not yet. Rhi still looked none too pleased, but she let it go, setting the papers in the glove compartment.

Inside, Adrien was awake, blinking blearily at his surroundings. His eyes sharpened at the sight of Jonathan. 

“What—Where are you hurt?” His voice was carefully controlled, the evenness giving away his panic.

“Nowhere important.” A bruised rib, some cuts that would heal with enough time. Nothing that would kill him.

A muscle ticked in Adrien’s jaw. “So who’s blood is that?” 

Rhiannon met Jonathan’s eyes in the rearview mirror, grimacing in sympathy. She tossed him a towel as he climbed into the back seat, careful not to get blood on the seats. Adrien didn’t look away. 

“Jonathan.” 

“Yes.” He set the towel down across his lap, pointedly looking out the window. Adrien’s reflection looked back at him, quietly disapproving. He closed his eyes. “Some have been in Nice. He said he wasn’t sure if they were still there.” 

“Did you hurt him for that information?” 

Jonathan stayed silent. Adrien exhaled slowly. The wound on his head had stopped bleeding, Jonathan noted as he turned to face Jonathan more fully. 

“Are you going to do this every time?” he asked softly. 

_Yes_ , Jonathan thought. _If it means ending them, if it means keeping you safe, if it means they stop coming after us, then yes_. 

Instead, he said, “We’ll see.” 

They didn’t speak for the rest of the car ride.

**November 14, 2010**

Alfie goes to school at a primary school twenty minutes from the townhouse. Clary stands beside Adrien, peering curiously around at the school. Children race to and fro on a playground, screaming and chasing one another. She’d never been like that, she and Simon. They’d always been the ones sitting quietly on the sidewalk, arguing about comics or movies. A smile creeps onto her face at the memories. 

“Is he, like, legally your son?” Clary asks. She’d never gotten the specifics of how her brother ended up with a kid. “Or did you guys just lie your way past the suspicion?”

Adrien, perched on a window-sill beside her, laughs. “I can’t lie to save my life. I don’t actually know if Jonathan ever got the proper paperwork. He’s the one who enrolled Alfie.”

She gives him a side-eye. “He didn’t tell you a lot of things, did he?”

Adrien stiffens. 

“No, that’s not—” _What a terrible way to phrase that,_ she thought, torn between amusement and embarrassment. “Like, obviously you two had a great relationship, and you...talked,” she says awkwardly, “but like, it sounds a bit like he just...does shit. And you and Rhiannon let him without asking about it.”

Adrien gnaws on his bottom lip, as if deciding how to answer. She starts to apologize, starts to say, _you don’t owe me an explanation,_ because he doesn’t; she’s the one who knows nothing about their relationship except what she’s been told, and she’s the one who doesn’t know anything about her brother except what she’s been told. If it works for them—

“He would tell me if I asked,” he says eventually. “I asked, once, how he has passports and all those official documents if he’s _un chasseur d’ombre,_ since, as I understand, you don’t need to go on international transportation like airplanes.” A slight smile curves his lips, and her shoulders relax. “He said his father had found someone to forge them a few years ago. I asked about his scars, once. And how he had a resume. And what was _on_ his resume.” 

Clary laughs aloud at that. “Wait, wait, he had a _resume?!”_

“Yeah! He applied to the bookstore with one, the one we worked at. He showed it to me, there was a bunch of stuff on it.” Adrien leans back. “He said it was ninety percent bullshit, but he wasn’t incompetent, so it was fine.”

Clary’s shoulders are shaking from the effort of keeping quiet. She imagines Jonathan hunched over a computer, desperately trying to put together a resume when his only real work experience is killing demons and starting wars. 

“Which parts were true?” she asks, voice shaking with laughter. 

“Uh, homeschooled, I think? And, um, he put mixed martial arts and listed _personal discipline_ as a skill he gained from that.” Clary snorts, and slaps a hand over her mouth. Adrien’s grin widens. “Yeah, and there was, um, I think there was _multilingual_ and—oh, what was that one that he said he kind of lied about? It had something to do with interpersonal relations, I can’t remember what he put. But he said, ‘Look, if I can be charming enough to trick a house full of people into thinking I’m someone I’m not, I can resolve conflicts’—Resolving conflict! That’s what he put!”

Clary gives up trying to laugh silently, doubling over as she gasps for breath. Adrien pats her on the back, still grinning. 

“My point is,” he says once she’s straightened up again, “I didn’t ask because we were a bit preoccupied with other things at the time. And because I trust him.” He studies her with thoughtful amber eyes, fingers fiddling with his jacket zipper. “You’re a bit like him, actually.”

She scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

“No, really. You have a tendency—correct me if I’m wrong—you have a tendency to blame yourself for everything that goes wrong around you, even if it isn’t your fault. And you tend to forge on ahead without considering consequences sometimes.”

“How the _hell_ did you know that?”

“Jace and I were talking.”

“I—What did he say?” She holds up a hand. “Honest answers only.”

“Just that you’re stubborn and impulsive and he’s wildly in love with you. Well, he didn’t say that last one, but you can tell by the way he looks at you.” Clary smacks him on the arm. It’s odd; one night and some tears, and she’s more comfortable around him than she is around most strangers. 

Though he doesn’t seem like a stranger, really. They’re bound together by a fear of what they’ll find when they find Jonathan, by missing him, by wanting to know him. 

“Adrien!” They look over to find Alfie running across the street, another kid in tow behind him. “Can I go to Sander’s? Please? He’s gonna let me borrow his copy of _Mockingjay.”_ The kid behind him glances from Alfie to Adrien, clearly at a loss with all the English. 

Also. How hadn’t Clary noticed the British accent last night?

Adrien crouches down. “How about we go with you and you can get your book? Or you can go tomorrow, alright?”

“But—” Alfie’s gaze flicks to Clary, and whatever protest dies. “Tomorrow?” he asks Adrien, voice stern. It’s hilarious to see a ten-year-old glaring at a twenty-year-old like he’s about to give him a scolding. 

Adrien nods, eyes earnest. “Tomorrow. Sorry, Sander.” He aims the apology at the kid with Alfie, who shrugs before turning to say something to Alfie in Dutch. He gives Alfie a quick hug before darting off to join another group of kids. 

Alfie scuffs his shoes on the ground, pouting. “Jonathan would’ve let me go.”

He’s looking at the ground, so he misses Adrien’s stricken look. Adrien swallows hard, standing. 

“Yes, well.” His voice is falsely bright. “You can complain to him when he comes home.”

Alfie turns a look on Adrien, too somber for a kid his age. “But what if he doesn’t come back?”

Adrien freezes. “Then we’ll deal with that when it comes,” he says, the words strained.

He stretches a hand towards Alfie, starting down the street. Alfie takes it, hiking his backpack higher up on his shoulders. Clary hangs back, looking from them to the school. It looks like a nice school. Probably expensive, unless her American brain is mistaking a public school for a private one.

“He’ll come back,” she hears Adrien reassure Alfie. “He promised.”

She would never have imagined any version of her brother with a child, in any world. There’s too much association with Valentine, with cruelty and abuse and callousness. But he has one, more or less. And from what she can tell, Alfie misses him as much as Adrien and Rhiannon do.

 _What if he doesn’t come back?_ he’d asked, looking far too old. Clary’s heart clenches. Another stake in this game. 

“Clary!” Adrien calls. She glances over, snapping out of her reverie. They’re already down the street. “Are you coming?”

She shakes her head, brushing away the morose thoughts. “Yeah.”

When Clary catches up to them, Adrien’s looking between her and Alfie with a contemplative expression on his face. 

“The two of you haven’t actually been introduced, have you?” 

Alfie shakes his head, looking her in the eye for the first time since she came here. He’s clutching his backpack straps with both hands, watching her warily. He looks moments away from bolting. 

“Alfie, meet Clary Fairchild. Jonathan is her brother.” Clary gives a little wave, trying to look non-threatening. It isn’t something she has to do very often. Her height is usually enough to make her seem unintimidating. “Clary, this is Alfie.”

“It’s short for Alfonse,” he informs her, with a tone that implies he’s imparting ancient knowledge upon her. 

She grins, leaning down to put them eye to eye. Not that she has to bend very far, she thinks, mildly annoyed. 

“Is that so?” 

He nods, clutching his bag, finally breaking her gaze to look down at his feet. Adrien smiles at them, clearly delighted that they’re talking. Or maybe that Alfie is talking to her. 

“Well,” Clary says, holding out a hand, “it’s very nice to meet you, Alfie.”

“You, too.” He shakes her hand, cheeks ruddy. He looks up at Adrien. “Can we go home now?”

Adrien’s answer is to start walking down the street, a bounce to his step. Alfie trails after him, eyes taking in their surroundings with a watchfulness that Clary associates with trained Shadowhunters, not children. Adrien gives Alfie a pointed look, a silent conversation passing between them. 

After a moment, Alfie groans and turns to Clary. “So you’re Jonathan’s sister, huh?”

Clary’s taken aback by the sudden address. “Oh, uh, yeah, I am.”

“You don’t really look like him. Aren’t siblings supposed to look alike? Sander’s got three and they all look kinda like him.”

“Alfie.” Adrien gives him another look. 

“What? You wanted me to make conversation!”

“It’s okay,” Clary says hastily. “I look like our mom,” she tells Alfie. “He looks more like our dad.” The explanation comes readily to her, but it isn’t really true anymore; in the photos, he carries himself with an elegance that Valentine hadn’t had. And Adrien’s love for him, his trust…

No, she thinks. No, he isn’t like their father anymore. 

Alfie’s studying her when she refocuses on the conversation. Adrien reaches out to take his arm, pulling aside before he can walk into a trash can. Alfie gives Adrien a sheepish, grateful smile. Adrien ruffles his hair, making him squawk in outrage. Alfie tries to smooth his blond hair, scowling. There’s no heat behind it, though. 

“Jonathan never talks about his parents,” Alfie says, flippant. “Are they bad people?”

Clary stares, at a loss for how to answer. There’s the real, long answer—their father had been an abusive, manipulative man who’d experimented on his own wife and children and a raging Shadowhunter supremacist, and their mom ran to save Clary, believing Jonathan to be dead. 

He had been, Clary supposes. At one point, Valentine had killed the boy Jonathan could’ve been, leaving Sebastian in his place. 

“Our mom is one of the strongest people I know,” she settles on. “I never really knew our father.” 

Adrien meets her eyes over Alfie’s head, an understanding look in his eyes. Clary wonders how much Jonathan has told Adrien about Valentine and Jocelyn. About the Circle. 

“But is she _good?”_ Alfie stresses. “Like Jonathan, or Adrien, or Rhi? Jonathan always said he wasn’t that great, but he was always nice to me.”

Adrien saves her from having to answer. “I think Clary’s a little tired. She’s been to a lot of places in the last few days. Remember when we went to Paris and Berlin?” Alfie nods. “Remember how tired you were?” Alfie nods again, understanding dawning. “Exactly. Let’s let her rest a bit, alright?” 

He unlocks the door, leading the way into the townhouse. Clary steps in after them. Even though she’s been here for almost a day, the size and decoration of it still takes her by surprise. It’s warmer than she’d expected, more natural, with its greens and wood and soft couches. 

“ _Is_ she good?” Adrien asks once he’s sent Alfie off to wash his hands. “Your mother?”

“Jonathan didn’t say anything?”

Adrien’s expression darkens. “Your mother...she is not a topic Jonathan was interested in talking about. He told me that your parents split and he was left with your father.”

She folds her coat across an arm, looking up at him. “How much d’you know about my parents? Their history, and all that.”

A wry smile. “If you’re asking if I know that your father was a supremist—is that the word? for believing you’re superior to others?”

“Supremacist,” she corrects. 

“Yes, that. I know that he believed _des chasseurs d’ombres_ are above the rest of the world, and that he wanted to make a world where everyone knew that. I know he pretended to die, and pretended Jonathan died, too. He said that’s why your mother left, before. Because she thought they were all dead.”

“Yes, and no. My mother thought Jonathan was dead, but she didn’t think my father had died.” She crosses her arms. “Good and bad are hard things to judge. I think she’s essentially good, because she’s always been there for me, and she’s always tried to protect me and she’s raised me to be strong and independent and capable. But she did some pretty awful things when she was younger, too. I don’t think I can sum her up with _good_ or _bad_.”

Adrien nods, starting for the living room. “People cannot be only one thing. Makes sense why you couldn’t answer Alfie.”

“That, and how do you say _my dad was a raging asshole who committed murders because he thought they were beneath him and my mom did the same until he tried to go after her best friend who_ _she was secretly in love with_ in kid-friendly language?”

Adrien winces. “Perhaps not in so many words.”

Clary laughs. Jace, reading on the couch, looks up at the sound. He offers her a smile, holding out an arm in invitation. She starts for him before pausing, catching Adrien’s sleeve. 

“Here.” She pulls Jonathan’s notebook from her pocket. “Rhiannon and I found it in Bucharest. You should probably—it seems like something you should have.”

He flips it open, lips parting as he takes in the words. “This is—” He stops, swallowing. “Thank you.” 

Clary nods, making her way to Jace. She settles onto the couch, curling up on his side. 

“Satisfy your curiosity?”

“Alfie is a very smart ten year old,” she says in lieu of an actual answer. Jace just laughs softly, pulling her close. From the corner of her eye, she thinks she sees Adrien smile. 

**June 2, 2009**

Jonathan still smelled like smoke. He could smell it on him, cloyingly sweet like a drug. It smelled nothing like a campfire, or a hearth. This smelled like Hell. 

_Makes sense,_ he thought. _We_ did _use hellfire._

Across from him, Rhi was slumped in her seat, watching the station through her window. The blue of her hair was duller than usual. There was an angry cut on her cheek, hidden by a glamour, but he could see through it. 

Valentine’s people had found them at the Manchester safehouse, barely five hours after they’d arrived. They were both hiding injuries under their clothes. Jonathan winced as he shifted in his seat. Bath to Amsterdam by train was going to be an extremely painful journey. 

“Still don’t know how they found us, do we?” Rhi said, the first thing she’d said since they’d collapsed into their seats, exhausted. 

“Not a clue.”

“Lovely.” She dragged the word out like unspooling a kite. The train shifted under them as it pulled out of the station. Jonathan settled back for the ride, resigning himself to six hours of discomfort. He shifted again— 

And Rhi sat bolt upright. “Did you hear that?” 

He stilled, shaking his head. His hand snuck towards his waist where his dagger was concealed. Rhi motioned for him to sit up. He sat slowly, careful not to make any noise.

_Thump._

Jonathan’s head snapped up. The baggage compartment only had one bag, and he’d assumed it was an emergency pack of sorts for the train. But the sound had come from there…

He rose slowly to his feet, a hand on the hilt of his dagger. Rhi shifted so her back was to the door to their compartment and she had a clear line of sight. He glanced back, mouthing, _on three._ She nodded. Her hair frizzed, a sign of her drawing her magic into herself. 

_One,_ he mouthed, getting into a firmer stance so he wouldn’t fall over as the train moved. 

_Two._ The thump came again. It was, without a doubt, coming from the bag. Jonathan even thought he saw it move a bit this time. He reached a hand up, inches away from the bag. 

_Three._ He yanked the zipper of the bag open, dagger out. Something yelped, leaping up and crying out in pain as it hit the roof. Jonathan started to move—

And paused. 

“It’s a kid,” he said dumbly. A scrawny boy was curled on the shelf, arms tucked up to protect his head. Rhi lowered her hands. He sheathed his dagger, exhaling hard. “Fuck, I don’t have time for this.”

He made to step into the hallway, but a muffled shout stopped him. He spun around, looking up at the boy. He stared down at Jonathan with wide blue eyes, terror in every line of his body. His hands were out in surrender.

“Don’t tell anyone, please, I can explain—” 

Jonathan’s eyebrows shot up. “How old are you?” 

The boy paused. There was a bruise on his jaw, a nasty one, too. Dark blue turning purple. He looked from Jonathan to the corridor outside, nervous. 

“That doesn’t really matter, does it?” 

Jonathan glanced back at Rhiannon, who shrugged. _You found him, you deal with him_ , she mouthed. He glared. In response, she settled onto the bench, leaning back with a smug look on her face. Sighing inwardly, he stepped closer to the shelf.

“Look, kid, I don’t know who or what you’re running from—don’t lie, no one hides in baggage compartments unless they’re running away—but we’re running, too. Just get down from there before you hit your head.” 

The boy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why should I trust you?” 

The train lurched beneath them, and the boy grabbed onto the bars, yelping. Jonathan gestured to the swaying train compartment with a raised eyebrow. 

“Alright, alright, help me down.” There was a distinct note of panic in the boy’s voice. Jonathan glanced at Rhi. Her posture didn’t change. _Fat lot of use you are_. 

He reached up, trying to remember how Valentine had braced his weight as a child, the few times he’d remembered Jonathan was his son and not simply a weapon to be sharpened. He couldn’t remember it, not really. Just vague ideas of being spun around in a circle. He wasn’t even sure that had happened; maybe he’d read it in a book somewhere. 

Lost in thought, the boy’s weight nearly knocked him over. He braced himself just in time, arms wrapping instinctively around him. The moment his feet were on the ground, the boy threw himself to the side, curling onto the bench, back to the corner. Jonathan swallowed hard, glancing away. 

He’d done that, hadn’t he? Before he’d realized showing weakness made Valentine more upset than anything else? 

“Sit down before you fall over,” Rhi advised. Though her tone was light, there was an understanding in her expression that he didn’t like. 

He took a seat on the bench beside Rhi, pushing her legs aside to make room for him. The boy watched him with wary eyes, tracking his every move. Jonathan settled back with a groan, eyes closing involuntarily. How did you make a six-foot-one dagger-wielding man look like less of a threat? He knew how to charm adults, how to deal with people his age, but Valentine had neglected to mention how to talk to children. Maybe because he hadn’t known either. 

“Want some ice for that?” Rhi asked. Jonathan’s eyes snapped open. She was looking at the kid, leaning forwards with her elbows braced on her knees. The kid hesitated, considering. He studied her as if looking for any evidence of ill-will. That, too, was familiar. 

The first time Valentine had taken Jonathan out of Idris, he’d been six. Valentine had hit him earlier, right across the face, for not moving fast enough during training. _You should’ve dodged it,_ he’d said. _It’s your own fault. Deal with it._

Someone had come up to him when Valentine had left on the doorstep, walking into the townhouse with a _don’t go anywhere, Jonathan_ thrown over his shoulder. It was a woman. Maybe. He couldn’t remember anymore. He just remembered she’d offered to take him with her. Give him somewhere safe to stay. 

He’d gone three blocks with her before he noticed the men following them. Before he noticed she was leading him towards a dilapidated building, not a nice house. And when he’d run back to the townhouse Valentine had been at, he’d been met with a furious glint in Valentine’s jaw and another beating when they got home. 

Funny, that he remembered that, but he didn’t remember the reasons Valentine had hurt him most other times. 

“We’re not going to hurt you,” he found himself saying. He hardly recognized his voice— soft, tired, with an edge of vulnerability he almost wished he could take back. He gestured to the bruise. “Your dad do that?”

The boy stiffened, but he didn’t deny it. 

Jonathan nodded, gesturing to his back “Mine used to use his belt. You didn’t deserve it, whatever he did.” How long had it taken for Jonathan to realize that? Most of his life, maybe, and even then, he’d had something trying to convince him that it had all been for his benefit, it was all to make him stronger, better—

 _Bullshit,_ a voice said. It sounded an awful lot like Adrien. _You were a child. You did nothing to deserve that pain._

Jonathan cleared his throat. “And you’re braver than I was, if you ran away.”

Brave, and lucky. Incredibly lucky. If the boy had met someone like that woman, someone less sympathetic, someone more worried about the law—

“Look, do you have family you can stay with? Anyone else at all?”

The boy shook his head. 

Rhi’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? No one? What, is everyone dead?”

“ _Rhiannon.”_

“What?” she demanded. “It’s a fair question!”

“It’s _rude._ And it’s cruel, if the answer is ‘yes’.” He turned back to the boy to find him watching the two of them with less suspicion than before. He was still tightly curled on the seat, but he didn’t look seconds away from running anymore. “Do you have a name? Something we can call you? It doesn’t have to be your real name if you don’t want to give that to us.” He couldn’t call the boy _the kid_ for the whole train ride. 

The boy bit his lip, absently rubbing the bruise. “Alfie,” he said finally. “M’name’s Alfie.”

Jonathan reached out a hand, slowly as not to alarm him. “It’s very nice to meet you, Alfie. My name’s Jonathan. This useless lump is Rhiannon.”

“Hey, fuck you, I am _incredibly_ useful. _So_ useful, in fact, that the government—”

“Ignore her,” he stage-whispered to Alfie. “She gets tetchy when she hasn’t slept.”

There. The smallest hint of a smile. Triumph blazed through Jonathan at the sight. Even more so when Alfie unwound and took his hand, giving it a firm shake. He winced a bit as he moved. Jonathan catalogued that movement, the pain. 

“Would you like some ice?” he asked, gentler than Rhi’s first attempt. 

This time, Alfie nodded hesitantly. “Please don’t tell anyone I’m here,” he said, voice small.

Jonathan’s heart clenched. “Not a word. We won’t even have to leave this compartment.”

His brow furrowed. “But the ice is outside in the corridor.”

“Not necessarily,” Rhi said. She held out her hands, wiggling her fingers. “How would you like to see some real magic?”

Alfie’s response was automatic. “Magic isn’t real. My dad said so.”

“The dad that hurt you?” Rhiannon asked. Reluctantly, Alfie nodded. “Well, mate, hate to tell you this, but your dad doesn’t know everything, yeah? Watch carefully.”

“Ice, Rhiannon. Not an entire ice box,” Jonathan cautioned. The last time Rhi tried to summon something small and specific, they’d ended up with the entire back wall of a tea store instead of a single tea bag. She flipped him off before turning her attention to the task at hand. 

Alfie’s eyes widened as her hands glowed silver, the silver of moonlight and knives. Moments later, a bag of ice appeared in her hands. She handed it to him, pride lighting up her face. Alfie took it gingerly, staring down at it as if he expected it to disappear. He pressed it to the bruise on his jaw, settling back again. 

“Everyone else in my family is dead,” he said quietly. The English countryside blurred past outside the window; the compartment swayed. Alfie looked up at Jonathan, looking, for the first time, completely vulnerable. “Can’t I stay with you?”

Jonathan scoffed. “Kid, you don’t know anything about me. I could be a murderer.”

Alfie’s expression didn’t change. 

“You’re serious.” Realization dawned on Jonathan like a bucket of cold water. “Look, we aren’t people you want to be around for longer than you must. There has to be someone—”

Alfie shook his head, adamant. “There’s no one.”

Jonathan stared at him, lost. He couldn’t bring a kid home. He didn’t know the first thing about children! They were on the run from a criminal syndicate, for fuck’s sake. He’d have to be mad to bring a kid into that sort of environment. 

His eyes caught on the bruise Alfie was icing. It looked like he’d been punched, probably with an uppercut. A brutal one, too. Jonathan’s jaw ached in sympathy. The scars on his back twinged. 

“What if I’m just as bad as your dad, hm?”

“You won’t be.” The certainty in Alfie’s voice took him by surprise. “I know you won’t.”

“Jonathan,” Rhi said, a warning in her voice. He met her eyes. She shook her head slightly. _It isn’t safe,_ her eyes said. He gnawed on his bottom lip, fingers playing with a rip in his jeans.

This was an awful idea. Absolutely awful, the worst one he’d ever made. 

He turned back to Alfie, taking in the scruffy blond hair and wide blue eyes and too-thin face. Saw himself, ten years ago and a foot shorter, curled on the bed after a whipping, trying not to agitate the wounds too much. 

_I can’t send him back to that,_ he thought. _I can’t do it._

Jonathan sighed, sitting back. “You’re going to regret asking for this,” he told Alfie. 

Alfie’s smile changed his whole face, brightened his eyes and made him look younger. His proper age, Jonathan suspected. He was almost glowing. 

“I won’t,” he gushed, relieved. “I just _know_ that I won’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...Jonathan pocketed that magic tracking pill, right? that'll be relevant later on...
> 
> Also, I don't speak German, so I used Google Translate for those parts. If any of y'all speak German and there's something off about it, please let me know :)
> 
> And yes, Simon, I too would trade D&D secrets to try and get out of doing physical exercise. Alas, it never seems to work. Absolutely no sympathy. 
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://aceass1n.tumblr.com/) if you're enjoying it, if you're hating it, if you have constructive criticism...I'm pretty open to literally anything (as long as it's somewhat polite).


	8. Hidden Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drought ends. The chase resumes.
> 
> I'm posting two chapters this week, this and the next. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember Jonathan pocketing that magic tracking pill in the last chapter? Yeah, now you get to see what he did with it...
> 
> Chapter title from little beast by Richard Siken
> 
> Songs:  
> En cavale—pomme  
> Live Like Legends—Ruelle

**November 16, 2010**

Preparing dinner is always a chaotic affair. Adrien fends off simultaneous attacks from Rhiannon and Alfie, both of whom keep trying to steal food from the cutting board. Simon and Isabelle have been enlisted to help daily, mostly because they’d gotten caught doing absolutely nothing the first night they’d been here. Clary and Jace watch from the side, amused. 

“Alfie, don’t— _Alfonse Edmund Strinnet.”_ Alfie freezes with a hand on the cutting board, looking up at Adrien with puppy-dog eyes. He’s got a slice of carrot in his hand. Adrien has his hands on his hips, looking down at Alfie with a stern expression. 

“I’m _hungry,”_ Alfie explains. 

“And dinner will be ready in less than an hour, if you stop eating everything.” Alfie pulls his hand back, looking properly chastised. Adrien sighs. “Go do your homework, _mon chouchou._ I’ll call you when it’s time to eat, yes?”

Alfie sighs, sounding so much like Adrien that Clary almost laughs aloud. “Fine.” 

He slinks out of the kitchen, defeated and sulking. Once Alfie’s gone, Adrien collapses against the counter, boneless. 

“He has _so much energy,”_ Adrien says. Isabelle bursts out laughing at the despair in his voice. Jace pats him on the back. He stays splayed across the counter for a moment before pulling himself upright. “Alright. Food. Yes.”

Rhiannon snatches up another carrot, ignoring the indignant sound Adrien makes, and stands. “Best get out of his way now. He’s got knives and he isn’t afraid to use them.”

“No, that’s Jonathan!” he calls after them as Rhiannon leads them into the living area upstairs. 

They’ve settled into a routine of sorts while they’ve been stuck here. The Shadowhunters train once in the morning and once in the afternoon, wandering through Amsterdam between training sessions. One of them goes with Adrien to pick up Alfie in the afternoon. Rhiannon usually disappears in the morning to who knows where only to come back in the evening, shoulders slumped. _Nothing,_ Clary caught her saying to Adrien once. _Not a damned thing._

Through it all, frustration courses through Clary, turning her blood to fire. She spends her nights leafing through the pictures Adrien had given her, or sketching, or staring at paper trying to come up with a rune to find Jonathan. It never works. She can’t stop trying. 

Now, Alfie sits on the rug upstairs, legs crossed. A worksheet, half-completed, sits in front of him. He’s scowling at it like it stole the last cookie. Rhiannon settles onto the couch behind him, ruffling his hair. He gives a put-upon sigh, but Clary catches his smile before he tamps it down. 

Clary settles onto the couch opposite him, a burst of fondness warming her chest. It makes more sense after meeting Alfie and Adrien and seeing this. It makes sense why Jonathan would be willing to fight to protect it. 

Why he might disappear to protect it. 

The couch dips as Simon settles beside her with a groan. She snorts at the overdramatic sound. He gives her a wounded look. 

“I’m an old man! I have bad knees and battle scars.”

“You have a scar from when you fell out of a tree when you were ten because Eric said he’d give you twenty bucks if you climbed it in twenty seconds,” she says, voice wry. 

“Did you?” Isabelle asks from the other couch. Her dark eyes sparkle with mirth. 

“Asking the important questions,” Jace says, smirking. He leans against the back of the other couch, forearms braced on the cushions. 

“A) Yes I did and B) I don’t have a scar from that.”

“Yes, you do, and it’s shaped like a tulip.”

“Lies,” Simon says, shaking his head. “Slander. I won’t stand for this. In fact, I won’t—”

“Alfie, stop writing for a moment,” Isabelle says suddenly. Alfie starts, leaving a line of pencil across the page. He looks from her to the paper in alarm. He flinches back as Izzy reaches forward, moving the worksheet aside. Rhi wraps her arms around him, glaring at Izzy. Her expression shifts as she glances down.

Clary sucks in a breath as she follows Rhi’s gaze. 

A massive tracking rune covers a sheet of paper beneath the worksheet, made out in white and surrounded with black. It gleams slightly, the white turning silvery in the light. Izzy flips it over to reveal a blank page, covered in chicken scratch. 

“Alfie, honey, what is this?” Izzy asks. Her voice is carefully neutral. 

Alfie shrinks back as everyone crowds around. Rhiannon holds him tighter and shoots them a fearsome look. Simon, closest to them, shifts back with a muttered apology. 

“I was just—Adrien said—I just needed paper to practice maths—”

Clary turns her attention back to the paper, flipping it over to the tracking rune as Rhiannon calls for Adrien. It’s clearly a rune, but only to people who are used to them, who see them everyday. To anyone else, it might pass as black-out poetry. 

“Must’ve taken forever,” Jace mutters from beside her. His eyes trace the broad lines of it. _For death and mourning, the colour’s white,_ Clary thinks. She can’t look away. 

“What? Oh.” She senses more than sees Adrien coming to a stop beside them. “I didn’t think it was anything in particular,” he says as Clary reaches out to pick it up. “He was always trying new things, poetry, stories, art, I don’t know. I thought that was just...that.” 

“How did—Where was this?” Rhiannon demands. Her hair is a vibrant cloud around her. 

“On his desk,” Alfie says in a small voice, holding tight to her arms. 

“On his—” Rhiannon breaks off, pinching the bridge of her nose. She softens her voice, saying, “ _Cuishle_ , you know you’re not supposed to go in there.” 

“I know. But Adrien said it was alright!” 

Adrien shifts as Rhiannon turns a sharp gaze to him. “I moved all the dangerous things, it’s fine!”

Clary almost asks what the dangerous things are before deciding that really isn’t the most pressing issue right now.

Adrien looks around the group, taking in their expressions. The excitement in Simon’s eyes, the brightness in Isabelle’s, the small smile on Clary’s. 

“This is good, then?”

“Yes,” Clary says, smile spreading. She’s almost giddy with the discovery. A Tracking rune. He’d left a _Tracking rune,_ that brilliant, secretive, overachieving brother of hers. 

“It’s very good.”

**July 30, 2010**

Amsterdam slept outside the townhouse window, all soft streetlights and gentle darkness. Jonathan slid off the bed, biting his lip from the effort not to wake Adrien. He hesitated, glancing down at his lover. 

_I’m doing the right thing,_ Jonathan thought, looking down at Adrien’s sleeping face. In sleep, his lips quirked up at the edges, smiling faintly as he always was. Jonathan’s heart clenched, like his own body was protesting his course of action. He breathed in, braced himself. Memorized Adrien’s face, this room, the way his heart expanded when he gazed down at Adrien. _I’m doing the right thing._

Alfie had started asking why he had to stay with Catarina when the adults went to take out various headquarters. Even with explanations that it was too dangerous otherwise, he’d started demanding to be involved. Adrien had lost his previously omnipresent smile; he’d gotten more serious, more intense. 

He was still Adrien, still bright and optimistic and sweet. And Alfie was still Alfie, energetic and watchful and so, so smart. But they’d both changed. Jonathan was tired of being the reason people changed for the worse. He was tired of being the reason for the nightmares that he knew haunted Adrien some nights, the ones he was sure dogged Clary and Jace and Isabelle and Alec and Magnus and Maia and Simon and—

He was just so tired of being the reason people got hurt. 

He dressed in street clothes, tucking his wallet into a pocket. He made his way out of the room, feet silent on the hardwood. The townhouse was still, preternaturally still. Alfie was asleep; Rhi was out who knew where and wouldn’t be back until morning. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock—3:20, it read. 

Through the upstairs sitting room, with its velvet couches and scuffed coffee table and Alfie’s homework sprawled over it in a messy layer. He made a detour into the study to grab their binder with all the information they’d collected, take Catarina’s book, and leave the Tracking rune, before leaving again. Even the stairs were quiet, a rare occurrence. Despite being a relatively new house, the humidity of Amsterdam had wreaked havoc on the wood. They always creaked. Not today, though, it seemed. 

Through the downstairs living room, with its green walls and wooden table and worn armchairs. He flicked the fireplace off after a moment of hesitation. He’d be gone before anyone would notice, anyways. 

Jonathan slipped into the training room, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark. He slid across the floor on his socks, far enough from the bedrooms that he wasn’t too worried about someone hearing the motion. To the opposite wall and a fake panel. He’d kept thinking Adrien would find it, or Alfie, or Rhi. They were inquisitive people, his family. 

Family. 

It wasn’t a word he’d ever liked much; _family_ had always seemed like another word for _trap,_ for _obey._ People you were stuck with, for better or for worse, usually for worse. His father had done so many despicable things in the name of strengthening their family and Shadowhunters. It’d started sounding like another excuse for the inexcusable. 

But he thought of Clary blowing his apartment to smithereens, thought of Jace fighting the bond with Sebastian, thought of the love that had bound them. Thought of the way _family_ seemed to mean something rather different to them. And he understood them a bit better as he thought of the sleeping people upstairs. 

_When I come home,_ he promised, _this will be over. You’ll be safe._

He grabbed the duffel bag from behind the fake panel and replaced the wood. Inside, he’d stored a few thousand euros, four changes of clothes, documents, weapons, a new phone. He’d leave his old one here. 

His hands tightened on the straps, and his eyes fell closed. He breathed in time with the ticking clock upstairs, in, out. Gave himself a moment in the peace they’d been so careful to hide. 

His eyes opened, and he let it go. 

Out the front door, carefully oiled to be silent. Adrien was a heavy sleeper; nothing short of a gunshot could wake him. For a moment, Jonathan almost hoped Adrien would wake up, come after him, stop him from leaving. He paused at the door, giving it a chance. Let himself entertain the fantasy. 

He pushed off the door, starting down the street. 

They had a car, but the others would need it for Alfie. He’d have to steal one. There wasn’t exactly a shortage of options, he thought, giving the street around him a critical look. Cars lined the streets, ranging from dingy and falling apart to sleek and expensive. 

He paused beside a black Ferrari, head tilting in thought. Glancing down the street, he counted five other, far more inconspicuous cars. 

Speed versus anonymity. It was a tough choice. 

He sighed, patting the Ferrari’s hood. Another time, maybe. Sports cars were loud, besides. He couldn’t afford to make much noise. 

In the end, he settled on a grey Toyota. An unlocking rune granted him entry. From there, it was manual labour. He sent Rhi a silent _thank-you_ for teaching him how to hotwire a car a few months ago, never suspecting a thing. His heart twinged at the deception. Raziel, he’d gone soft. 

Three minutes later, he was heading down the street, the sound of the car shattering the idyllic quiet. The dashboard reads 3:30 AM. He reached for the GPS, punching in an address. 

Florence, Italy.

Something settled in him as he turned onto the main street, like the final lock clicking shut on a chest. 

_I’m sorry, Adrien. But this is for the best._

**November 16, 2010**

Tension hangs thick in the air as they eat dinner. The rune is on everyone’s minds. Across from her, she catches Simon doodling tracking runes in his mashed potatoes and frowning. Adrien makes a few attempts at conversation before giving up when no one responds. His fingers drum on the table, restless energy leaching out of him. 

“How did I not see that?” Rhiannon mutters for what seems like the thousandth time since they found the paper. 

“The office has more papers than desk. It would've been surprising if we _had_ found it,” Adrien replies, again. They’ve had this exchange six times since they sat down to eat and plenty of times before that. 

Why hide it so carefully if he wanted to be found? Clary stares down at her food as if the answer was written out in chicken bones. 

“We shouldn’t get our hopes up,” Jace says, spearing a piece of chicken with his fork. Clary watches him cut into his chicken, his elegant movements familiar enough to soothe her racing heart. “It might not be traceable.”

“But it might be,” Alfie says. He gives Jace a hard look. “Believing the worst doesn’t really help anyone, does it?”

“Sometimes it does,” Isabelle says. Her voice, like her expression, is distant. “Sometimes it makes sure your heart doesn’t get broken.”

A clatter comes from the head of the table. Clary jumps, knee slamming against the table. Rhiannon pushes her chair back, having set her utensils down. 

“I can’t do this, I can’t keep waiting. Clary?”

 _Finally,_ Clary thinks, relieved. She shoved another bite of food into her mouth before standing. Waiting is always worse than doing. The anticipation always feels worse than knowing, even if what you find out is awful. 

Alfie gets up to follow them, but no one else. 

Adrien shakes his head at Clary’s questioning look. “We had a lot of false starts in the beginning. If this is another one…” He clears his throat. “I don’t think I could stand being there if this is another one.”

Rhiannon squeezes his shoulder in reassurance as she passes, and he offers her a faint smile. 

“I keep thinking I want to find him,” Clary hears Isabelle admit as they leave, “but every time we get close, I’m not so sure I do.”

“I keep thinking he wanted to be found,” Adrien starts, but the rest of his reply is lost as Clary moves into the study with Rhiannon, Alfie trailing behind them. 

Her eyebrows shoot up as she takes the room in. “He wasn’t kidding when he said it’s cluttered.”

Every inch is covered in something. Three walls are dominated by bookshelves, all completely filled; the wall directly across from them has a huge floor-to-ceiling window set between two bookshelves. Rich crimson curtains frame the window, pulled back to reveal the street below them. A map is spread over a huge round table in the middle of the room, thumb tacks pressed into various locations. A desk just past that is piled high with open books and loose papers. A globe sits on a side table, acting as a bookend for some notebooks. 

Rhiannon’s smile is humourless. “Can’t help but wonder if he’d made it this way ‘cos he knew he’d have to hide things in here one day.”

Clary glances at her sharply. “How long d’you think he was planning this?”

Rhiannon gives a one-shouldered shrug. “No telling with him.” Her expression darkens. “He’s a bloody good liar. You wouldn’t suspect a thing unless you were in on the job.”

She leaves Clary standing in the entryway and makes her way to the round table. She runs a hand over the map, silver glimmering. The map shudders—or rather, the image of the map shudders. Clary draws nearer, entranced. As she watches, lines and notes appear on the map. She recognizes her brother’s writing for a few of them, but most of them are in an unfamiliar, cramped hand. 

“Adrien,” Rhiannon says when she notices Clary staring. “Jonathan only wanted him on research, and he was alright with it at first. Then he got sick of being stuck here while we went out to find things.”

“That’s why Jonathan taught him to fight.”

Rhiannon nods slowly, patting the table. “That’s why Jonathan taught him to fight.” 

Together, they watch as the map settles in place, words shifting aside into neat lines. Rhiannon reaches beneath the table, taking the rune out from a drawer Clary hadn’t even noticed. 

“I thought you couldn’t control your magic,” Clary says. 

Rhiannon scoffs, smoothing the paper out on the table. “These are parlour tricks. I can’t control it for big things, like Portals, but smaller things like this or protective magic like wards are alright. Then again, transportation magic has never really been my strong suit. I’m better with shite that has to do with keeping people alive.”

Clary nods, only understanding pieces of it. She knows that warlocks have magic that they’re better at—Magnus has told them that before—but it’s strange to hear someone barely older than her talk about it with the flippancy Rhiannon does. 

Rhiannon turns to face Clary, leaning her hip against the table. “Well?” She gestures to the paper. “Get to it, then.”

Clary grins at the brisk tone. Rhiannon really isn’t one to mince words. It’s nice. A bit like travelling with Lily.

Alfie hops onto a stack of books, balancing precariously, and fixes a watchful gaze at Clary. Rhiannon flicks her hand, and silver settles around the books, stabilizing the stack. Alfie gives her a grateful smile. 

Clary steps closer, rolling her sleeves up. Her heart races, and she swallows against a dry throat. What if this doesn’t work? What if it’s just a diversionary tactic? What if he was just playing around with something, and it isn’t a clue at all? She clutches her stele in her right hand, the bone digging into her skin. 

She stares down at it, trying to decide. Should she trace the rune, or make a new one in the corner? Did one make more sense than the other?

“Clary,” Rhiannon says, voice impatient. “Any day now, _lasta._ ”

 _If you want to be found,_ she thinks as she sets the stele to paper, trying to send the thought to her brother, wherever he is, _please, let this work._

And she starts to trace the rune. 

The familiar warmth courses through her veins as she works. She summons every piece of knowledge she has about Jonathan Morgenstern, every picture she’s seen of him, every story she’s heard. _Find him,_ she begs the rune, _find him._

She steps back when it’s finished, stele falling to her side. The rune glows like adamas, a clear arctic blue where it'd seemed silver before, then fades. Nothing else happens. Clary’s heart sinks. It didn’t work. Another false start, just like Adrien said. She swallows back bitterness, dragging a hand over her face. 

“Holy shit.” Rhiannon says. 

Clary glances at her. Rhiannon’s looking at the map, eyes wide. Clary follows her line of sight—

Narrow lines, glowing blue like the rune, spread over the map. They race like raindrops down a windowpane, crisscrossing and doubling back and twirling. Clary spares half a moment to think, _this isn’t how Tracking runes are supposed to work,_ before the lines recapture her attention. Rhiannon leans against the table, arms braced against the wood. She stares at the map, unblinking. Her lips are parted in surprise. Surprise, and awe. 

This isn’t how Tracking runes are supposed to work, but then again, what about any of this is normal?

 _I’m trying to find my resurrected brother with a magic map in a house he owns with his boyfriend and son,_ she thinks, and almost laughs. 

The lines stop moving. They start to dim, leaving blackened lines cutting through pre-existing notes, except for one bundle that glows brighter than before. 

“Budapest,” Rhiannon says. Her voice is breathless with wonder. When she looks up, her eyes are brighter than Clary’s ever seen them. She laughs, giddy and spinning in a circle. “Oh my _gods,_ we found him, we found him, thank you, _thank you—”_ She pulls Clary into a tight embrace, still swaying. 

Her joy is infectious. Clary finds herself grinning from ear-to-ear, hugging Rhiannon back just as hard. _We found him,_ she thinks. Even the thought is breathless, shocked. 

“Fuck, I’ve gotta Adrien—Adrien!” Rhiannon hollers Adrien’s name as she throws the study door open. “Adrien, get up here, we found him, we found him—”

“ _You found him?!_ ” comes the reply, sharp and booming. There’s a clamour as everyone downstairs pushes their chairs back and races upstairs. Clary turns back to the map, shoving her hands through her hair. The glowing dot over Budapest winks, as if saying, _congratulations. now you’re in on the secret, too._ Her cheeks hurt from smiling so much. 

“Where is he?” Adrien bursts through the door, breathing hard. There’s tentative hope in his expression, like he can’t quite bring himself to believe it. 

Clary points to the map. “See for yourself.”

Adrien makes his way to the map, steps hesitant. He peers down at the map, hands holding the table in a white-knuckle grip. He lets out a breathless, choked laugh as he sees the glowing location. 

“Budapest,” he says. He looks up at her, eyes bright like sunlit amber. “We’re going to Budapest.”

“Suit up, Shadowhunters,” Rhiannon says. Wicked glee fills her voice. Clary turns to see Rhiannon looking around the room with a sharp smile and hard eyes. “We’re bringing our runaway home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So basically (this isn't reaaalllyyy important to the story, but it's a fun fact), in the book Jonathan nicked from Catarina, the spell for hiding his location was paired with a spell for revealing it, neither of which needed a warlock or faerie to use. Because the magic in the pill was ALREADY meant for tracking, all it took were a couple extra words to make it able to override the "hiding location" spell that made it impossible to find him otherwise.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://aceass1n.tumblr.com/)!


	9. What the Night is Thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What on earth has Jonathan been doing this whole time?
> 
> TW: blood, violence, mentions of past abuse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way back in Chapter 1, Jonathan overhears two people very, very worried about someone named Freya finding out they fucked up. Who's Freya?
> 
> Well. 
> 
> Chapter title from little beast by Richard Siken
> 
> SONGS  
> Swim—Alec Benjamin

**August-October 2010**

Jonathan went to Lyon, after Florence. Asked Catarina to set the alarm; they set the apartment to burn as soon as someone tried to break in. There was information here that he didn’t want Valentine’s people to get ahold of, especially because they knew he had a place here. The sigils were hidden behind wallpaper; the wards were indetectable to anyone but Catarina or him, the ones who’d set them up.

Lyon to Stockholm. Stockholm to Cardiff. Cardiff to Venice. Venice to Bucharest. Bucharest to Vienna. Vienna to Athens. Around and around Europe. He left notes, receipts, postcards, but never bodies. Or at least, as few bodies as possible. He spent his days wandering down streets, pretending it didn’t hurt to be alone again. 

They’ve noticed him, he was sure of it. It didn’t stop him, though. If anything, it made him more reckless. _Come and get me,_ he thought every time. _Come and get me, and leave them alone._

In hindsight, maybe he should've been more careful.

Budapest, October 28, should’ve been a routine stop. He had all the information he needed—address, approximate number of agents, etc, etc. He left his car at the safehouse; the location was close enough that he could walk to and from the headquarters. It was night, anyways. Blood was easy to hide at night. No one would be up except the drunk and the sleepless, neither of whom would pay attention to him.

He turned his hood up, covering his bright hair. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should just dye it. It was the most recognizable thing about him. 

Jonathan walked down dark streets, the sounds of merriment fading into the distance as people stumbled along, drunk, one street over. He wasn’t even nervous for these anymore. Just impatient. 

_Get it done,_ he thought, _and you can go home._

Home. 

Would he still have a home with them, when all was said and done?

He was lost in thought, allowing his feet to carry him forwards on autopilot. He passed an alley—hands shot out and grabbed him—something hit the back of his head—

And the world went dark.

The first Jonathan noticed when he woke was that his hands were chained to a pipe. Not ideal, slightly panic-inducing, but not the end of the world. He could probably get his stele, or a knife, or—

The second thing he noticed, upon thinking all of that, was that he was completely unarmed. 

Panic crashed through him, burning away any lethargy. He remembered last minute not to open his eyes yet. He focused on keeping his breathing unchanging. _Focus. Take in your surroundings. Listen._

He heard water gurgling in the pipe behind him, air rushing through a furnace somewhere to his right, cars on the street outside. Blood pounded in his ears, making it hard to hear anything other than his racing pulse, but he didn’t think he could hear anyone else in the room. He gave it another few minutes before opening his eyes. 

_Oh, you have_ got _to be kidding me._

Three perfect circles spread around him with him in the centre, the white chalk luminous against the dirty floor. Between each circle, sigils twined around the space. They were all sharp edges and brutal swoops, nothing like the gentle curves of Shadowhunter runes or the flowing edges of Rhiannon’s sigils. These ones looked like the thing burned into his shoulder. Every bone in his body was screaming at him to _get out get out those are wrong those are bad get_ out

He forced himself to take deep breaths—in for six, out for six, in, out, in, out—forced his hands to unclench.

Jonathan leaned his head back against the pipe, looking past the circle. He was in an octagonal room that was empty save for him, a bench with a large leather pouch, and a chair. The pipe he was tied to ran against a column that held up the roof. 

Good news: he still had all his clothes, so he wouldn’t freeze to death. His jacket had been stripped off, yes, but he still had his t-shirt and jeans.

Bad news: that meant they weren’t planning to kill him. _Yet._

The door screeched open, and he sat up straighter. There was no point in pretending to be unconscious; he couldn’t sell it well enough for it to be worth it. Better to have his eyes wide open, make sure nothing caught him by surprise. 

A man walked in, holding a notebook that was, incongruously, decorated with a delicate floral pattern. Jonathan latched onto that, still focusing on breathing. His heart was trying to pound its way out of his chest like a battering ram, but it wasn’t at the forefront of his mind anymore. _Three things you can see. Three things you can hear._

The man himself was tall, about Jonathan’s height, with broad shoulders and faded runes across his body. Jonathan’s heart sank. There’d be no getting past an ex-Shadowhunter; the man would’ve had all the same training as him. Would be watching him as closely as he was watching the man. 

_All that time looking for them, and all I had to do was wait._ There was nothing funny about the thought, but a smile tugged at Jonathan’s lips. 

He was so fucked. 

“You’re a hard man to keep track of, Jonathan Morgenstern,” the man said. The English took Jonathan by surprise; he’d been expecting German, again. Maybe Hungarian, considering they were in Budapest. A wave of discomfort bowled through him as he realized he had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. They might not even be in Budapest anymore. “Very quick on your feet.”

Jonathan stayed silent, trying to fake nonchalance. His heart rate, which had finally started to slow, picked up again. 

The man sighed. “They did say you’d be obstinate. Well. That doesn’t really matter.” He opened his notebook, brows furrowing as he read something. Jonathan watched as he followed a line with his finger, frowning slightly. He snapped the notebook shut. “Right.” He flipped the leather pouch open, revealing an impressive array of knives. 

Jonathan’s heart dropped out of his chest. _Oh,_ fuck, _oh fuck oh fucking hell shite mother_ fuck _er_

The man made a face as he picked up a knife, setting the notebook down on the bench. “I do so hate this sort of thing. Distasteful, you know. Better to let the halfbreeds do it. But no, no, upper management wanted a _Shadowhunter.”_ He sighed, starting towards Jonathan. 

Jonathan grabbed onto the pipe in an attempt to keep himself from fidgeting. Maybe he could kick the knife out of the man’s hand, disarm him. His legs weren’t bound. 

But then what? His hands were still bound to the pipe, too tightly for him to free them even if he _did_ dislocate a couple fingers. He’d still be trapped, and it’d probably just piss the man off. 

“Do you really think bleeding me will bring him back?” Jonathan asked. He was proud of how steady his voice was.

“Not particularly, but it’s not just blood we need. Blood’s just a part of it.” The man crouched down in front of him, head tilting in an eerily predatory pose. This close, Jonathan could see the flecks of grey in his dark eyes. “See, we figured out what we did wrong last time.” He gave Jonathan a once-over, lingering on the shoulder where the sigil had burned itself into Jonathan’s skin. “I’d tell you, but—” He clicked his tongue. “It really doesn’t matter to you.” He lifted his knife, pressing it to the inside of his elbow. “Might sting a bit.”

And he slashed the knife down. 

Jonathan bit down on a scream, body jerking. Once, he probably could’ve taken the pain without any reaction. It would’ve been a regular Tuesday night for him, after all the shit Valentine put him through. But now, after years of gentle touches and soft kisses, the pain ripped through him like a serrated knife. 

He looked down to collect himself and noticed, for the first time, channels dug into the ground leading from him to the circles. His blood flowed along them, black in the low lighting, a sluggish river. 

The man shifted, pressing his knife to the other arm.

“What’s the point of bringing him back?” Jonathan bit out. Pain loosened his tongue, though probably not in the way his captors would ever want. “He was always a deadbeat fool, looking for any way to make himself more important than he was. He’ll fail aga—” He broke off as the man slashed down again. He grunted, breathing ragged. His arms burned where they’d been cut, but it didn’t stop him from looking the man dead in the eye and spitting, “He’ll never succeed at what he was trying to do. And you’re all fools for thinking he will.”

The man’s expression shuttered. The shallow kindness had vanished from his face. He studied Jonathan’s expression, cataloguing something. 

“You know,” he said slowly, “I was planning to leave it at two cuts and let you alone. But with that attitude—” Jonathan tracked the man’s movement as he pressed the knife to Jonathan’s chest, over his sternum— “maybe you could do with a couple more.” 

Jonathan sneered at him. “Go ahead. Take all the blood you want. It won’t change the fact that you’re all holding onto a maddened has-been who doesn’t give two shits about any of you as long as he gets to kill Downworlders for taking his father from him.”

A muscle ticked in the man’s jaw. The knife pressed in a little deeper. The man’s chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. Understanding clicked in Jonathan’s mind, and he laughed out loud. 

“You’re not allowed to hurt me beyond the first two cuts, huh? Not powerful enough for that?” He grinned. “Going to go running back to—”

The man backhanded him across the face. Jonathan’s head snapped to the side. Warm blood dribbled from his lip to his chin. Jonathan exercised his jaw, checking to make sure nothing was broken. 

“You watch your mouth,” the man said, quiet as an adder. “The next one who comes for you, they won’t be half as nice as me.” His grin was feral, more teeth than amusement. He tapped the blade against Jonathan’s cheek. “Might cut out that tongue of yours if you’re too loud.”

Jonathan’s heart stopped. 

The man smiled, pleased with himself. He patted Jonathan on the cheek with his knife again, twice more, before standing. 

“Get comfy, kid. You’re gonna be here a while.”

There were no windows, no clocks, nothing but stinging cuts and the occasional person coming in to reopen the wounds on his arms and give him a few more new ones. He’d given up trying to find a way to break out; there were no windows, no cracks in the walls, no way to free himself from the pipe, no door except the one people came in and out of. 

His whole body was on fire. There were deep slashes, broken bones, everything in between. Despite the first man’s warning, Jonathan hadn’t exactly given up on taunting his captors. There was something oddly satisfying about it, a familiar pattern for him to fall into. It was one thing he’d never understood with Adrien, how he could taunt and mock and tease and lie and still Adrien would be good to him. Kind. 

_Raziel, I was an asshole._ He leaned his head against the pipe with a thunk. _I was an absolute dickhead shitweasel._ And now he was going to die, alone, in an abandoned warehouse. He’d laugh if it wasn’t so pathetic. 

Hopelessness had set in somewhere between staring at the walls and counting the drops of his blood as they spattered on the ground. He’d left clues in each of the places he’d gone, thinking Rhi and Adrien might look for him, but he didn’t know if they’d find them. There were dozens of potential safehouses he and Rhi had set up, even more that Valentine had had that he might’ve gone to. And even if they found the clues, he’d made it impossible to track him with magic unless they used the Tracking rune he'd left. He’d been thorough in his disappearance. Too thorough, maybe. 

He thought it’d been a week and a half when an unfamiliar woman came in. She was better-dressed than any of the others, her blonde hair in an elegant topknot and the sleeves of her pinstriped button-up rolled up to her elbows. A Voyance rune marred her right hand. Her loose trousers billowed as she came to a stop in front of him, looking down at him with an unimpressed look.

“You’ve caused us a great deal of trouble, haven’t you?” Her voice was low, melodious. It held a trace of an accent. Some sort of Scandinavian accent, maybe. “All those agents dead, all those warehouses burnt…” She fixed him with a flinty grey gaze, arms crossed. “If I had known you would be so much trouble, I would’ve told the people who brought you back to kill you years ago.”

“So you’re the one spearheading this thing, huh?” He straightened, looking up at her with as much dignity as he could while chained to the floor and lethargic from blood loss. His racing pulse didn’t even faze him anymore; it was always like that, now. “Must say, I’m disappointed. Thought such a pig-headed endeavour must’ve been headed by a man.”

Her mouth twisted in displeasure. “They told me you were mouthy.”

He smirked at her. “What can I say? I like being entertained.”

She clucked, starting to move in a circle. He watched her study the sigils, the channels stained crimson with his blood, the chalk turning rusty where blood had spilled over the edges of the grooves. 

Jonathan tilts his head at her. “Did you sleep with my father? I’m not judging, I’m just—I honestly can’t think of a single reason why anyone would want him back. I can’t imagine he was great company.”

The woman gave him a disapproving look. “Not everything circles back to sex.” She paused, studying him. “Do you _want_ to know why I want to bring him back?”

Jonathan stayed silent. 

She made a disappointed sound. “Come, now. Don’t be shy. You had so much to say about it to Nolan. I believe you called Valentine a...what was it? A ‘deadbeat fool’?” She paused. 

“Look, ma’am, if we’re going to have a conversation, you’re going to need to give me your name,” Jonathan said. She’d wandered somewhere out of his line of sight. His pulse spiked at that. He couldn’t see her, didn’t know what she was going to do, didn’t know if she was hiding a weapon somewhere under her loose clothing— “You know mine. It’s only fair.”

She laughed from somewhere behind him, an irritatingly pleasant sound. “Oh, my name isn’t of any importance. You may call me Freya.”

Freya, goddess of love and death. Jonathan tried not to read too much into that. The name was vaguely familiar, though he couldn't quite place it. 

Her footsteps stopped. Moments later, fingers traced the wound on his arm, touch gentle. He tensed, bracing himself for pain. She only chuckled, patting his shoulder.

“No one’s coming to find you, little Morgenstern.” Freya’s voice came from somewhere behind him, soothing as if speaking to a spooked child. Fingers carded through his hair. Revulsion swept through him; he almost flinched.

He held himself still, carefully, carefully still, forcing his eyes to stay open. He’d always had a terrible habit of closing his eyes when he was afraid, as if by shutting out the world, the world stopped seeing him. As if hiding from what you feared was as simple as blocking it from sight. 

Fabric rustled as she settled down beside him. “You know, the Seelies were prepared to pay a handsome bounty for you. Something about a prince of your blood.” Metal bit into his arm as she set a knife against his skin. The slight pressure was enough to reignite the pain from the week before. _So she_ does _have a knife,_ he thought. It was almost a relief, really, to be in pain again rather than simply wondering if he would be. 

“I said no, of course,” she continued. “You’ve caused so much trouble for us.” Her hair, the strands of it that had come loose from her updo, settled against his shoulder as she tilted her head, leaning closer conspiratorially. “I’d hate to see you let off so easily.” He tensed as the knife bit in, reopening wounds. Fire licked up his arm, but he’d gotten used to it by now. It was a dull pain, easily ignored. He focused on her words, on the instinct whispering _pay attention._ “All those people…” 

The knife vanished. Her footsteps echoed in the basement as she moved to the door. 

“But, we need you.” Freya turned with a smile like the edge of a bloodstained scythe. “Don’t worry, child.” She winked. “It’ll be over soon.” 

And he was alone again. 

**Now**

The door slams open. Jonathan startles out of a restless sleep. Blood trickles out of cuts as the sharp movement reopens wounds he’d thought were closed. _What—_

He stares, wide-eyed, as people file into the room, two, three, five. They’re dressed in Shadowhunter gear, even the Downworlders. And there are Downworlders, warlocks and werewolves and vampires. He even notices a couple faeries. They take up positions around the circle. 

_What in the bloody ever-living hell—_

Freya comes in last. Unlike the others, she doesn’t wear gear. Instead, she’s resplendent in a bronze sports jacket and black trousers, a v-necked blouse underneath. She has two daggers sheathed at her sides, two _kindjal._ Jonathan recognizes them, vaguely. He thinks Valentine and Luke had them as a matched set, when they were _parabatai._

Villains and their symbolism. Jonathan almost scoffs. 

The first man he’d met here—Nolan, if he remembers the name correctly—comes to stand beside her with a warlock. He’s holding the floral notebook from before, open to the page at the end. He sat up straighter at that. Or, tried to. Even moving his head is taking an inordinate amount of energy. Everyone who’d come in, except for Freya, had read from that notebook, steadily moving through it. If they’re at the end…

Part of him, he’s ashamed to admit, is relieved that they’re finally going to kill him. It’s better than sitting here and wondering what they’re going to do to him next. 

Another part of him, optimistic and naive, is still trying to convince him that Adrien and Rhi are going to find him. They’ll get here in the nick of time. 

Freya stops in front of him, taking the last position around the circle. She offers him a kind smile. 

“Ready, then?”

“Ready for what?” he asks. “Death? I’ve died twice, it’s overrated.”

She tilts her head thoughtfully, then hands the notebook to the warlock. “Let me know what to do,” she says, unsheathing the daggers and stepping into the circle. Around them, the others joined hands. Now that he’s paying attention, he notices the magic-users are spread out evenly between the Shadowhunters. That can’t be a good sign. 

The warlock kneels, pressing a hand to the chalk. It starts to glow—though glow isn’t quite the right word. Violet rises from the chalk, swirling like shadows counterclockwise around the circle. It closes him in with Freya, who unlocks his hands with a swift slash of a dagger. 

She crouches down in front of him. He considers kicking the dagger out of her hand, flexes his arms in preparation. Even that takes too much energy. 

_I’m sorry,_ he thinks, pretending Adrien and Alfie and Rhi can hear him, _I’m sorry._

Freya presses both daggers to his chest, one on each side of his heart. She meets his eyes, grey to green, and smiles. 

“I heard you’ve been stabbed before. I trust this won’t be too unfamiliar to you, then.”

And she drives the knives in. 

He gasps in pain as the shadows around them turn indigo. Fire spreads from the wound, like sparks eating away at paper. The skin around the sigil at his shoulder tightens painfully, like his skin is shrinking around his bones. Distantly, he hears the warlock chanting in some demon language he can’t identify. 

Freya drags the knife across his skin, cutting deep. Jonathan tries to jerk away, but something holds him fast. She’s carving something into him, he realizes through the haze of pain.

The sigils around them are glowing bronze, a sharp contrast to the bruise-like haze of magic rising from the circles. _Bronze to summon wicked powers,_ he thinks. 

He can feel the blood draining out of him. It’s an odd feeling, he reflects as he sags onto his back. Freya follows him, the _kindjals_ never leaving his skin. He knows the exact moment she’s finished; the sigil on his shoulder goes painfully taut, then eases. Like it’d been fighting to reach the carving before, but now that it’s complete, it’s at peace. 

His heart pumps, sluggish. In his periphery, he can see something taking shape, or someone. Tall, broad-shouldered, with pale blond hair and dark, shark-like eyes. 

_Father._

Valentine—or the shade of Valentine—turns to face him and Freya. He gives her a cursory glance, eyes catching on Jonathan. Surprise flickers across his face. Jonathan turns his head to face his father, the man who tormented him for seventeen years, twisted him into something monstrous and cruel. 

_I hope they kill you a second time,_ Jonathan thinks. Unease flits across Valentine’s expression as if he’d heard Jonathan. _I hope it hurts when they do._

Because, by all the gods and angels, it _hurts._ His life is being pulled out of him with hooks, like an elastic band being pulled taut. He can feel his body fighting to keep it in, to live. His vision goes black, then blurry, then black again. 

_This is what it feels like to die._

It doesn’t really matter how many times it happens. It never hurts any less. 

He spares a thought to thank any powers that might be listening that Adrien isn’t here, that Rhi isn’t here, that Alfie isn’t here. That it’s only him, and that’s alright. He’s the reason they were ever in danger, after all. He’s the one who should never have lived. 

Something’s happening outside the circle. The sigils aren’t glowing as brightly. He hears, faintly, the sounds of steel on steel. Of battle. Freya glances back, alarmed. She rips the blades from his chest, and he screams. The wound glows the same unnatural bronze as the sigils. 

As he watches, his father steps closer to him, almost floating. He isn’t corporeal yet; Jonathan can see through him. Through blurry vision, he sees Valentine kneel beside him. His mouth moves, but Jonathan can’t hear what he’s saying. 

And suddenly, as fast as he came, he’s gone. The last thing Jonathan sees before he blinks back out of existence, pulled back to whatever Hell they dug him out of, is his furious expression. Fitting, he thinks. He was always angry in life. 

“Jonathan?” Adrien’s voice cuts through the fog. Jonathan turns his head slightly, just enough to see Adrien falling to his knees beside him. Blood covers him from head to toe, but he doesn’t look injured. “Jonathan, oh fuck, stay with me, alright? _Putain_ , that’s a lot of blood, alright, just stay awake, _mon coeur_ , _mon amour,_ please, oh God, please—” 

_It’s alright,_ Jonathan wants to say. _I don’t mind dying if you’re the last thing I see_. 

Adrien’s face, pale with fear, hovers over him. Even in the darkness, his eyes are soft. Warm. Even here, even now. _Home_ , Jonathan thinks. The sounds of battle fade, mute. His vision narrows to the beautiful man kneeling over him, the tears cutting silver tracks over his cheeks. His eyes start to drift shut.

“Please,” Adrien whispers, leaning forwards to put his head on Jonathan’s mutilated chest. His voice breaks. “Please.” 

_I’m still here_ , Jonathan tries to say, tries to reach for Adrien’s arm. The darkness is closing in, fuzzing the edges of his vision. 

He is so, so tired. 

Tired, and cold, and _maybe if I die again, I’ll come back better._ And _maybe if I die this time, I won’t come back_. 

The thought brings with it equal measures of relief and regret. They’d had a good run of it. Two years and change. He closes his eyes, sees sunlight highlighting the gold in Adrien’s hair, hears Alfie’s laughter ringing out in the flat as Jonathan tries and fails to put up the Christmas decorations, feels Adrien's arms around him. 

_I love you_ , Jonathan thinks. _I’m sorry._

And the darkness descends, carrying him away like a bier into the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter done! I'm...sorry? For hurting him? But c'mon, y'all knew this was coming. No one gets out of fucking with a magical mafia unscathed. 
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://aceass1n.tumblr.com/)!


	10. Cent'anni

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clary gets a brother, Jonathan gets a sister, and Isabelle gets some closure.
> 
> TW: alcohol, grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it, y'all! The last chapter. We finally get some closure. There was originally going to be a chapter after this, but I'm gonna hold onto it for the future. For...reasons. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who stuck with me through this whole thing. Your comments and kudos mean a lot to me!
> 
> Chapter title from Cent'anni, a poem I found on Instagram years ago that I somehow cannot find again. Which is a shame. Because it's a beautiful poem. 
> 
> SONGS  
> my tears ricochet—Taylor Swift  
> Ghosts—BANNERS  
> willow—Taylor Swift

**November 17, 2010**

Clary paces around Catarina’s apartment, occasionally stopping to fiddle with something on a shelf before taking off again. Morning light slants in through the rounded window, brightening the apartment. Clary can’t stay still, can’t stop thinking about when that god-awful purple smoke had dissipated and she’d seen Adrien kneeling in the centre of the circle and her brother in the flesh, broken and lying in a pool of his own blood. 

_We’re too late,_ she’d thought wildly, _we’re too late, he’s dead, he’s dead_

They hadn’t been, though. 

She remembers seeing the outline of Valentine through the violet fog. Had seen the way he’d winked out when Jace had stabbed the warlock through the heart. 

There’s a certain amount of justice to Jace being the reason Valentine stays wherever he is, considering Jace died at his hand last time. Full circle, and all that.

Catarina hadn’t asked any questions when they showed up at her apartment with Jonathan nearly dead. She’d managed to heal him, enough that he’d live. There wasn’t anything she could do about the scar, though. Adrien had nodded when she’d told them, looking shell-shocked. He’d clutched Jonathan’s hand like a lifeline, eyes not leaving Jonathan’s face. 

“Have you slept?” She turns to see Jace coming down the hallway, wearing clean clothes. Rhiannon had Portalled back to the townhouse and grabbed them clothes once Jonathan was stable, expression grim. 

She shakes her head, letting Jace pull her into his arms. “Can’t.”

He huffs, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “He’ll be alright.”

She leans against him, resting her head against his shoulder. Jace hooks his chin over her head, swaying slightly. Her eyes drift closed as she breathes him in, the familiar scent and feeling of him a balm to her frayed nerves. 

“Am I being ridiculous, being this worried about him?” she asks against his shirt. “I don’t even know him.”

She feels Jace shrug. “You’ve always cared about everyone, even the ones you don’t know. That compassion, that’s part of who you are. That’s not ridiculous.”

Clary smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He presses his cheek to her hair. “It’s one of the things I love about you, actually.”

Her smile widens. “Oh?”

He gives her a squeeze. “Don’t fish for compliments.”

Someone clears their throat. Clary opens her eyes, pulling away slightly. Adrien stands in the doorway, eyes bloodshot. There’s a bruise on his cheek from the fight, and he holds himself stiffly. 

“He’s awake,” he says, voice hoarse. For a moment, Clary stares at him, turning the words over in her mind. 

_Jonathan._

She tears herself from Jace’s arms, sprinting for the guest bedroom. Throwing the door open, she stops short in the doorway. 

Jonathan sits on the bed, propped against pillows. Bandages are wrapped around his chest and arms; his leg is in a sling. There’s a pale design on his shoulder; it looks like a sigil of some sort, branded onto him. His face is unharmed except for a shallow cut on one cheek. Eyes the colour of pine study her, wary. Despite his injuries, he sits tall, regal. 

For a moment, they just look at each other, their history an insurmountable barrier. 

“I’m sorry I killed you,” Clary blurts, and the moment shatters. 

Jonathan grins, a reserved, crooked smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I’m not. I was an arse.”

Sebastian had had an Idrisan accent, not quite British, but Jonathan’s accent is firmly in the realm of English with a hint of French. He speaks with a gentle drawl, lilting and elegant. It reminds her of his handwriting. 

Clary steps into the room, easing the door shut behind her, and takes a seat beside the bed. Her fingers drum against her thigh, an awkward silence settling between them. She can’t stop herself from comparing the boy in front of her to Sebastian. He’s older, obviously, three years older. But he’s also different in a more fundamental way, with narrower shoulders and softer features and tired eyes and laughter lines. 

“Rhiannon never told us why those people wanted you dead,” she says finally. “Besides the whole, you know, bring Valentine back thing.”

Jonathan made a face. “Right to business, then.” She settles back, bringing her knees to her chest. He exhales hard, leaning his head back. “That’s really all of it, but...where to start?”

“The beginning is, you know, generally where stories start.”

Jonathan’s lips twitch. “The beginning. I s’pose you mean the beginning as in when I was brought back, and not when I was born.” He slants a gaze at her. “I’m sure you already know that part.”

She stares back, unamused. He pauses, looking somewhere over her shoulder as he thinks. 

“The people you fought last night were an underground branch of the Circle, mostly Shadowhunters who’d either left or had their Marks stripped. Some were Downworlders, though I can’t imagine _why_ Downworlders would want to ally with someone who wanted them dead. The long and the short of it is that they wanted to resurrect Valentine, which, apparently, Rhi told you.” 

She nods. He gives her a grim smile. 

“Yeah. I wasn’t too pleased about that. I’m not sure why—I think it had something to do with the runes they used to spell out his name—but they got me instead of him. They weren’t too happy about that, but they didn’t kill me.” His eyes sharpen, expression oddly smug, as if to say, _their mistake._ “I escaped their headquarters after a month, made it to Lyon, hid there for about a year. They ended up finding us.”

“You and Adrien.”

“And Rhi. But yes.” He shifts to better face her, wincing slightly as it pulls at injuries. “They found us. We decided to leave, try to find somewhere else they didn’t know about to hide. I went to Manchester for a bit, just to see if there was money stashed there, or papers, or weapons, or anything, really. They found us there, too, Rhi and I. Met Alfie on the way back. Decided to start tracking Valentine’s people instead of waiting for them to find us.

“It worked rather well, actually. No one really looks twice at Rhi in the Shadow World. She’s a warlock; there’re plenty of those. And me, well. I don’t really dress like Sebastian used to, and I don’t look exactly like him, either. It worked well enough.” A brief glimmer of amusement flickers across his expression, there and gone. He shrugs. “That’s all there is to it, really. Adrien said you managed to kill or arrest all the people there?”

She nods. They’d called the Budapest Institute after the raid. It’d been a hell of a time explaining why a) American Shadowhunters were in their territory unsolicited, b) they’d conducted an unauthorized raid, c) they had a warlock with them, and d) why they shouldn’t tell the Clave. It’d taken a lot of gesturing and Rhiannon’s language sigils to get their points across. Luckily, the Budapest Shadowhunters had, albeit reluctantly, complied. 

“If it was working, why’d you leave?”

Discomfort flashes in his eyes. “Ah.”

“Ah?” she demands. “That’s it? Adrien and Rhi were worried _sick_ about you—”

“Yes, I’m aware, he already gave me a piece of his mind.” Jonathan smiles, eyes softening. Clary shifts. It’s the sort of expression that makes her feel like she’s intruding on something. “I believe his exact words were, ‘if you ever pull something like that again, I will personally throw you into the ocean with cinder blocks tied to your feet’.” Jonathan’s expression is pained. “He’s been spending a bit too much time with Rhi.”

Despite herself, she laughs. He looks surprised at the sound before grinning. His expression sobers as he considers her question. 

“Look, it’s—well, it’s best to go back to Edom for that, really. As you so kindly reminded me upon entry, you killed me.” She stiffens, and he holds up a hand. “I don’t mean to bring up old wounds, excuse the pun, but it’s just—look, dying isn’t much fun. But at least it was over, you know? Sebastian was dead, and I didn’t have to deal with... _any_ of it anymore. And then I came back, and it’s—” He shakes his head, eyes unseeing. “I kept thinking they were better off without me, that I was going to poison everything I touched, that it was only a matter of time before I became _him_ again.

“Sometimes I think Glorious took too much.” Jonathan stares fixedly at the blanket, fingers tracing idle patterns. “I think—I don’t know who I am, really. I know who _he_ was. I know who I don’t want to be. But I still haven’t figured out who _I_ am. And sometimes I think Glorious took away everything about me that I knew for certain, and sometimes I hate it for that. I hate it for leaving me like this, just—just leaving me to figure all of this out. I wasn’t—” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. Clary doesn’t move, afraid of shattering the moment, the truth he’s laying on the table like a still-beating heart. Her chest aches for them, for all the time they hadn’t had and all the life he hadn’t lived. “I wasn’t supposed to have to figure this out.”

“So you decided running away was the best way to deal with it?” 

“I reckoned it was better to fail alone than as a group.” He shrugs, wincing. Clary had put _iratze_ after _iratze_ on him as Adrien kneeled beside her, begging Jonathan to live in a low, broken voice. Like ceramic shattered on a floor. She takes a deep breath, shoving the memory aside. “I figured, you know, they’re less likely to keep track of a single person. And Rhi was always calling me _tàbharadh_ , I figured—why not? I’m already a ghost, I’m already supposed to be dead—” 

“Can’t imagine Adrien was happy with that line of logic,” Clary says drily. 

Jonathan doesn’t laugh. “Adrien doesn’t know. I never told him.” 

They settle into silence. Clary leans her head against the back of the chair. He looks exhausted, bags under his eyes and too-sharp cheekbones. His lashes fan across his cheeks as his eyes drift shut. 

“Did you ever think of coming to us?” she finds herself asking. “New York, I mean. We would’ve helped you. And the map in your study didn’t have any American locations, so you probably would’ve been safe.”

Jonathan’s eyes open, and he gives her a critical look. “New York, where I burned down the Praetor Lupus and murdered Jordan Kyle, where Isabelle Lightwood, who would probably love to kill me, and you and Jace, who _have_ killed me, lived? Not to mention the many people I imprisoned and brutalised? _That_ New York?”

Clary flushes. “It’s just an idea!”

He huffs, closing his eyes again. “I thought about it. But there wasn’t any good way to do it. Rhi isn’t confident enough in her Portals to transport all three of us across the ocean, and I didn’t really want to test my documents against airport security.” Her lips curve up at the image of Jonathan panicking over airport security and trying to explain his multitude of knives. “Besides. I couldn’t ask all of you to keep me a secret from the Clave.” His expression darkens. “Rhi shouldn’t have asked you to do that, either. That was unfair of her.”

“What the Clave doesn’t know won’t hurt them,” Clary says, voice breezy. 

He opens one eye, a corner of his mouth pulling up. “Yes, I s’pose I _am_ talking to the woman who thought it’d be a good idea to waltz into Hell without any backup. You _would_ think lying to the Clave is nothing out of the ordinary.”

She grabs a pillow from behind her, preparing to throw it. She sets it down on her lap, sitting up prim and proper. 

“I am not going to throw this pillow, but only because you’re injured.”

He gives her an offended look. “I’m not an _invalid._ I could catch a fucking pillow.”

She grins. “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that. When you’re healed!” she exclaims hastily as he goes to grab a pillow. “Catarina’s gonna be pissed if you reopen your injuries this quickly.”

He falls back, looking contrite. “Right. Should probably _not_ do that.” He pauses, eyes on her face. Almost like he’s picking out similarities and differences. She wonders if she looks as different to him as he does to her. She has the uncomfortable sense that he’s peering into her soul, cracking it open like one of his books. “Why _did_ you help Rhi? You didn’t have to.”

Clary uncrosses her legs. Crosses them again. Fidgets. Stalls for time. She doesn’t really have a decent answer, and she suspects he knows that. 

“Because I was curious about you,” she admits when the silence drags on too long. “Because I wanted to know what you were like without the demon blood, and every time I started to think looking for you wasn’t worth my time, we’d find something that made me want to meet you more.” She leans her head back, talking to the window across from her. “Your notebook, your books, the clues. Stuff Rhiannon told us about you. It was a bit like—you know reading old letters from, like, the forties or something? That feeling like you know them, but only secondhand, only through someone else or some filter?” He nods, contemplative. “It was like that. And I kept thinking, you know, I kept thinking, _I just need to talk to him. Just once.”_

“And now you have,” he says. His expression is unreadable. He picks at a loose thread on the bandage, absentminded and restless. Jonathan has the bearing of a convict on trial, awaiting the sentence of death or acquittal. He watches her with piercing eyes, careful and wary. 

“And now I have,” she agrees. Something occurs to her. She makes a shooing motion at him. “Scoot over, the chair’s uncomfortable.”

He rolls his eyes, some tension leaching out of shoulders as he inches over. She hops onto the bed, crossing her legs under her. Up close, she can see the lighter greens mixing in his eyes. 

“That’s so not fair,” she mutters.

“Hm?”

“You’re already prettier than me, why the hell do you have nice eyes, too?”

Jonathan lets out a surprised laugh. “You think I’m pretty?”

Clary glares. “So not the fucking point.”

His grin is self-satisfied as he leans back against the pillows. “I got all the good genes, you got a good childhood. Balances out.”

The reminder sobers her. “It wasn’t fair, what Valentine did to you.”

“I know.” His smile fades, shoulders slumping. He cards a hand through his hair. “Took awhile for me to understand that. But I know. Thanks,” he adds belatedly. 

Clary looks at him, really looks. The way his mouth naturally turns down, the long lashes, the calm eyes. The scars peppering his skin, the flush in his cheeks. He looks alive in a way she hadn’t really considered he would. Sebastian had been cold, a marble statue despite his body heat and beating heart. Jonathan is completely, painfully human. 

“I’m gonna hug you now,” she decides.

His eyes widen, taken aback. “Oh. Al—alright.”

She goes onto her knees, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He’s solid, wiry, with bony shoulders and bumps where he has scars. He sits stiffly for a moment before exhaling, collapsing against her. He wraps his arms around her, turning his head to tuck her head under his chin. 

“I’m glad you found me,” he whispers, voice heartbreakingly vulnerable. 

“I’m glad I found you, too,” she whispers back, giving him a gentle squeeze. She feels him smile against her head. “You know,” she says, “I always wanted a brother.”

He laughs softly, pulling back to look her in the eye. His expression is brighter than it’s been this entire time. Softer, too. A hint of the boy who’d died in Edom, of the person he might become if the world would just give him a chance to catch his breath.

“What a coincidence,” he says lightly, eyes sparkling. “I always wanted a sister.”

Going home is an odd feeling. Jonathan stands by the Portal Clary made, staring at the Amsterdam townhouse through it. His heart beats unevenly, nerves jangling. Alfie and Rhi are on the other side. Adrien stands at his side, and he gives Jonathan’s waist a squeeze. Jonathan glances over to find Adrien giving him a reassuring smile. 

“Through the rabbit hole,” he says quietly in French, too quietly for Clary, standing to his left, to hear. Adrien’s cheek dimples as his smile widens. Jonathan melts at the sight of it. _By the Angel, I got lucky._

“You’re welcome to visit whenever you want,” Catarina reminds him, standing in her kitchen. “Just...try not to get into any more life-threatening situations.”

He grins at her, pulling her into a hug. She stiffens in surprise before hugging him back.

“Thank you,” he says as he pulls back. “For everything.”

Her smile, kind and knowing, warms him. She jerks her head towards the Portal, saying, “Get going, Morgenstern. Your kid’s waiting for you.”

He takes a deep breath and steps through the Portal. 

It hits him immediately that it smells the exact same. Like those candles Rhi adores and buys by the dozen, something apple and homey. He used to tease her about it; now, he’s impossibly glad for it. The tension drains from his shoulders at the scent. His feet carry him through the entryway into the living room of their own accord. 

_It all looks the same,_ he thinks, the ache in his chest somewhere between sorrow and joy. On one hand, he’d been right that nothing had changed much without him. On the other hand…

He takes in the dishes piled high, the books collecting dust. He remembers opening his eyes to Adrien, bags under his eyes and bronze skin ashen. 

“ _Bienvenue chez toi_ ,” Adrien murmurs in his ear, arms looping around his waist. He leans back against Adrien, uncaring of the Shadowhunters passing them by. Clary looks at Adrien’s arms around him and winks at Jonathan. Jonathan sticks his tongue out at her. 

A sister. He has a sister now. 

The thought settles into his heart like a piece of a puzzle, half-complete but slowly filling. The emptiness might never fill completely; he’s looked into the void too many times to believe it will ever leave him completely. But it’s another brick in the wall against the dark. 

“Jonathan!” Alfie barrels down the hall, arms out. His footsteps echo in the living room. A smile splits Jonathan’s face; his heart expands, so light he thinks he might float away. 

“Alfie!” He kneels down, taking Alfie into his arms and lifting him up. He spins in a circle, Alfie giggling and holding on to him. _I’m sorry,_ he thinks, _I’m so sorry I left you, love, I’m so sorry._ He sets Alfie down. “Missed me, huh?”

Alfie nods vigorously. He ruffles Alfie’s hair, starting for the living room. Alfie doesn’t even protest, just sticks close to him. 

“Tea?” Adrien asks him, slipping back into French out of habit as he walks into the kitchen. 

“Please.” Jonathan half-falls into the couch, flinching when he hits his still-healing injuries. He’d gotten a good look at it earlier, the rune carved into his chest. Catarina had managed to heal most of it, so what remained is a faint outline. Jagged and ruthless, like a crown made of obsidian spikes, perfectly symmetrical. It isn’t as large as he’d expected it to be, maybe twelve centimetres in diameter, right over his heart. He swallows, locking the memories in a box. A different time.

Alfie settles onto the couch beside him, messy-haired with dark circles under his eyes.

“He hasn’t been sleeping much,” Adrien had said earlier, linking their hands. A wave of shame had gone through Jonathan at that. _I shouldn’t have run,_ he’d thought. 

“Are you mad at me?” Jonathan had asked. Braced himself for anger, for a breakup, for anything. “For leaving?” 

Adrien had kissed the back of his hand. “I was scared for you, and a bit angry, at the start. But I could never be mad at you for long.” 

Now, they sit in a semicircle, Jonathan, Alfie, and Rhiannon squished on the couch and the New Yorkers on the various armchairs around them. 

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Rhi says, uncharacteristically honest. Her blue hair is as vibrant as he remembers; her hand, when she squeezes his arm gently, is calloused from handling weapons. 

“Thank you for looking for me,” he replies. 

She smiles, eyes somber, before punching him in the arm. “Never do that to me again.”

“Deal.”

She scooches to the side when Adrien comes back, handing Jonathan a mug of tea and keeping one for himself. Jonathan leans against his side, luxuriating in the familiar feeling being held. 

“So,” Jace says, leaning back in his armchair. “What are we gonna do now?”

“Go home,” Isabelle says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Jonathan supposes it is. They came to Europe to help Rhi find him, and they’d done that. He can’t say he’ll be too sad to see them go. Isabelle’s been looking at him like he killed her brother (which he did, so that’s fair) and Jace has been avoiding him. Simon made a couple minutes of awkward small talk, but they were both relieved when it came time to part. 

If he’s honest with himself, it hurts to look at them. Somewhere between his heart and his soul, like someone had taken a poker and pressed it to a still-fresh wound. None of them are who they were when they last met, but they all bear the scars of what Sebastian did to them. He doesn’t know any of them, and he doesn’t think he’s quite ready to. Maybe in a year, maybe in three years, maybe never. For now, he has all the family and friends he needs on the couch with him.

Clary alone looks a little put out by the thought of leaving. 

“Stay for today,” Adrien says. “Please, it’s the least we could do after all your help.”

Jonathan nudges him with an elbow. “Your Asian is showing.”

Adrien straightens. “I was raised by a very lovely and upstanding Taiwanese mother—” he grins at them, slightly sheepish— “and yes, she taught me that it’s incredibly rude not to invite guests to stay.”

“Even if you don’t want them there,” Jonathan adds, hiding a smile behind his mug. 

“Well, I—” Adrien trails off, glaring at him. It’s a bit like watching a puppy trying to look intimidating. 

Jonathan reaches out and boops his nose. “You’re adorable.”

Adrien melts. 

“The two of you are disgustingly cute, you know that, right?” Clary sounds amused. 

“They’re always like this,” Alfie says offhandedly. Jonathan gives him a betrayed look. “It’s true! You’re always calling each other things in French and making each other laugh and—and—”

“Yes, and?” Adrien prompts. His eyes are honey in the sunlight. 

Alfie crosses his arm and slinks down, pouting. “Never mind,” he tells Jonathan. “I didn’t miss you at all.”

“Mm, sure.” He gives Alfie a secret smile, raising his tea to his lips and taking a sip. “Did Adrien let you sleep over at Sander’s while I was gone?”

Alfie maintains the facade for a few minutes before cracking, as Jonathan had known he would. “No. Can I? Can I please? He has a new video game, and the new Hunger Games book, and—”

Jonathan laughs, setting his tea down so that Alfie wouldn’t accidentally knock it over. “Alright, alright, if he invites you next weekend, you can, alright? But not on weekdays, mind.” Alfie nods, looking over the moon. 

He looks back up to find the Shadowhunters watching him with varying expressions. Clary looks quietly pleased, while Isabelle looks like she’s swallowed a lemon. Simon looks amused; Jace is studying Jonathan with his head tilted, eyes narrowed. _Alright,_ he thinks. _Let’s get this over with._

“Isabelle,” he says, picking his tea back up. He nods towards the stairs. “A word?”

Isabelle straightens up, startled. She exchanges a look with the others. Whatever she finds has her standing, shoulders straight like she’s walking into battle. Adrien gives his hand a squeeze as Jonathan stands as well, leading Isabelle upstairs. 

“Hold this a moment, would you?” He hands her his tea. She, confused, takes it. He unlocks a hidden door leading to the roof and steps out, taking his tea back. “Thanks.”

Jonathan leads her right to the edge, taking a seat. He grunts as the action pulls at his wound. It’ll scar something awful, but he’s already got his fair share of scars. What’s one more?

“I should push you off,” Isabelle says, dropping down a ways away from him. 

His lips twitch. “After all that effort to save me? Rather poor planning, I would think.”

“Maybe I helped you so that I could be the one to kill you.”

“Honestly? I wouldn’t put it past you.” He takes a sip of his tea. “Well. Here we are, nice and away from everyone else. No need to mince your words now. Get it out.”

Isabelle gives him a suspicious look. “You took me out here so I could yell at you?”

“Well, I’d prefer you didn’t yell, but yeah, that’s the general sentiment.” He sets the mug down, pushing himself onto his knee and patting the tiles. There’s a fake one here somewhere, with a compartment under it—ah. There it is. He pulls it up, triumphant, and emerges with an unopened bottle of whiskey. Isabelle looks amused despite herself. He sets it on the roof beside them, picking up his mug and taking a sip, letting the tea warm him against the brisk November wind. 

“What’s the whiskey for if you’ve got tea?”

“Figured we might need it, the way this conversation might go.”

She shrugs. “I prefer tequila.”

He stares at her. “Really?” She nods. “What a bloody shame. I thought you had taste.”

Isabelle flips him off. Any amusement drains out of her expression as she looks at him, really studies him. After a moment, she groans, dropping her head back. 

“I... _really_ want to hate you. It’d be so much easier if I hated you.”

“Because of Max.” 

“Keep his name out of your mouth,” she hisses, fury sharpening her gaze. “You don’t get to say his name. You don’t even get to _think_ about him. You killed him, you killed him with a fucking _hammer,_ you don’t get—” She breaks off, voice cracking. She shakes her head hard, looking away from him. Jonathan lets the silence hang around them, lets the accusation settle into his chest. It chisels away at pieces of his hard-built wall, but he figures he deserves it. At least this time, he deserves it. 

He holds the whiskey out to her in invitation. For a long moment, he doesn’t think she’s going to take it. She does, though. Snatches it up with a sigh. 

“If I fall off the roof, I’m taking you with me.”

“Duly noted.”

She cracks open the cork, taking a long swig. Waving the bottle at him, she says, “You killed my baby brother. In a kitchen. When we trusted you.” She pauses before adding, “ _I_ trusted you.” 

His stomach twists. Staring down at his tea, he counts his breaths. One. Two. Three. Shame rises up like bile. 

“I know,” he says, voice empty. He doesn’t say that he isn’t Sebastian anymore. That won’t change the fact that her brother is dead, and his hands dealt the blow. 

She sniffs, continuing as if he hadn’t spoken, “And then you trapped us in Edom and made it so my boyfriend lost his memories, so then I lost my boyfriend, too, and it just—you took everything from me, you know? That’s what it felt like. And I _hate_ that it isn’t true, and I _hate_ that I can’t actually blame you, because it wasn’t _you—”_ she gestures to all of him in one angry wave of her arm— “that did it. And I wish I’d never come on this thing, because then I could still blame you and hate you and wish you were dead, but I don’t anymore, and I—” She stops, swallowing hard. She takes another sip, more measured this time. 

“You need someone to blame because it’s easier to be angry than it is to miss them,” he says, wrapping his hands around the mug. “It’s easier to be angry, ‘cos then you don’t have to face the fact that you’re really fucking lonely, and that you see them everywhere, and there wasn’t anything you could do to save them.”

“What the hell would you know about that?”

Jonathan’s lips curve into a humourless smile. “Shockingly, quite a bit.” He sighs, pulling his legs up to cross them beneath him. Picks at the peeling skin by one of his nails. “When I first came back, I spent so much time being scared and being angry and being alone. And I thought about calling someone sometimes, Clary or Jace or, hell, maybe even my mother. And it isn’t the same, because your brother is dead and everyone I ever thought of calling is still alive, but the simple fact of it is that loneliness does not care if the person you miss is alive or dead. What matters is that they aren’t there.”

When she’s silent for too long, he glances over. Her head is bowed, the whiskey held loosely in her hand. He reaches over and takes it, putting the cork in and setting it on the roof between them. Her shoulders shake with shuddering breaths. 

“I’m sorry,” he says into the autumn air. He tries to put as much sincerity as he can into the apology because fuck it, Sebastian’s dead and he’s alive and _someone_ deserves some goddamn closure. “Isabelle. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Isabelle sucks in a breath, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand. He lets her cry, lets her compose herself, and looks out over the city. It was late afternoon, the time in the autumn where the sun starts to set. The edges of the horizon bleed indigo. He studies the gradient from indigo to violet to magenta, and wonders how he would write that into a story if he tried. 

“Damn you,” she says, but there isn’t any heat behind it. “Damn you for being nice to me.”

Jonathan laughs. “Well, I’m glad that came through. I’m not usually much good at being nice.”

“You were nice to the kid. Alfie.” 

Jonathan drains the rest of his tea, setting the mug on the roof. “Yeah, well, he’s a kid. We’re adults. We’re supposed to be nice to him. We’re supposed to make sure he grows up smart and strong and not traumatized.” _Not like I was,_ he doesn’t say, but he’s sure she hears it anyways. She leans back on her hands, looking at him with far less animosity than before.

“What happened to you? After the loneliness and the anger and all that?”

“I fell in love,” he says simply. 

She tilts her head to the right, thoughtful. “Is he why you did it? Tracking them down, leaving—” 

He scoffs, picking up the bottle of whiskey. “No, I just thought it’d be fun, running after the people who want me dead. Not that you’re all much better, all things considered.” She stiffens at the reminder. He waves the bottle at her, unconcerned. “Oh, relax, I’m not killing anyone. Not for a while, anyways.” For a moment, he’s back in an alley with blood on his knuckles, in a car with blood coating his palms, tied to a pole with blood running down his arms—

He forces the memories back, keeps talking if only for something to do. “Adrien’s—well.” His lips quirk with the ghost of a smile. “He really shouldn’t have been involved in any of this, you know? He’s sweet, and kind, and so fucking smart. And he loves me.” He laughs, disbelieving and a little broken. He takes a sip of whiskey to stop the sound from spiralling into hysteria. Beautiful, brilliant, good Adrien. “I don’t know why, but he loves me.” 

“I don’t think love needs a particular reason.” 

“Yeah, he said that, too.” The silence is gentler this time. Less awkward. He holds the whiskey out in offering, but she shakes her head. He shrugs, setting it down after taking another sip. Probably a good idea. They were three storeys up and Catarina had gone to all that trouble to heal him. Again. 

“What was it like?” He gives her a questioning glance. She glances at him before looking away again, out over the city. He has a feeling she’s trying not to look at him. He doesn’t blame her. Some days, he can’t look at him, either. “Dying?” she clarifies. 

One hand fiddles with the bottle cork as he considers, eyes on the skyline, on the lights coming online and warming the night with their golden glow. 

“Like a dream you had when you were young,” he says eventually. “One you remember a little less every day. You remember bits and pieces, remember how it looked, maybe—but you don’t remember how you got there, or what was happening, or how it felt.” 

“So it doesn’t hurt?” she asks. She speaks like she’s walking along a tightrope, afraid to stray from the path lest she fall to her death. 

He hesitates, hand stilling. The wound on his chest twinges. Twice he’d died, almost thrice. Anger rushes through him at being forced to relive it, but he pushes it back. No one else has died except Jace. It makes sense she’d ask him.

“Not unless it’s done slowly.” He pauses before adding, hesitantly, “It wouldn’t have hurt for him.”

Isabelle lets out a breath, wrapping her arms around herself. She nods. 

He isn’t sure how long they stay there, silently watching the sunset. When they finally stand to go in, Isabelle offers him a nod. Something in his chest uncoils at that, at the hesitant forgiveness. He nods back, barely perceptible, but it’s enough. 

Jonathan pauses at the door, looking back over the city. The last bit of light fades as he watches, leaving them in inky darkness. 

Sunset. Sunrise. 

Maybe it isn’t impossible for him to move on from it all, after all. 

Adrien cooks a veritable feast, enlisting the help of Jace and Rhiannon and charging Simon with making sure Isabelle goes nowhere near the kitchen. Alfie is sitting on the couch with Jonathan, bouncing with excitement as he fills Jonathan in on everything he’s missed in the last few things. Clary grins as she watches Jonathan nod, smiling faintly. 

“You know what?” Isabelle says from beside her. “He’s not so bad.”

Clary glances at her in mock surprise. “Damn. Did he bribe you to say that or something?”

Izzy rolls her eyes, walking away. She stops in front of Simon, saying something too quietly for Clary to hear. Clary looks away, leaving them to their whispered conversation. 

A sharp slap rings out over the sound of dinner preparations as Jonathan gives Alfie a high five, mischief lining his face. 

“Oh, no,” Adrien says. Clary turns to find him watching Jonathan and Alfie with a pained expression. “I know that look.”

Jace glances over, intrigued. “What look?” 

“That one.” Adrien points to the smirk on Jonathan’s face. “They’re planning something, I know it.”

Rhiannon grins. “Remember last time, when they sewed the legs of your trousers together? Or the time before, when they put a whoopie cushion on your seat?” She’s practically vibrating with glee. “Or the time before _that,_ when they—”

“Yes, yes, we get the idea,” Adrien says hastily as Jace roars with laughter. Clary’s shoulders shake as she tries not to laugh at his pain. He sighs, setting down the salad he’d been tossing. “At least there are other people here now. I might not be the one to suffer.”

The oven timer goes off as Rhiannon snorts, cueing another flurry of activity as they try to get all the food to fit on the dinner table. Jonathan peers at the spread, amused. Adrien smacks him on the shoulder with a tea towel. 

“ _Sois gentil,”_ he chastises. Jonathan holds his hands up in surrender, grinning up at him. 

Alfie reaches out, starting to pile his plate with food. Jonathan opens his mouth as if to stop him, and then shrugs, following his lead. Clary tracks the wince as he reaches too far. Rhiannon takes his plate from his outstretched hand and starts scooping food onto it for him. 

He pouts at her. “I _had_ it.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” She sets the plate down in front of him with a beatific smile.

Simon coughs to hide a laugh. 

“Are you staying here?” Jace asks once everyone has food. His expression reminds Clary of the person he’d been when they’d first met—guarded, with too-sharp sarcasm and layers upon layers of armour. It’s easy to revert to the people they used to be around Jonathan. After all, none of them really knew how he fit with who they were now. In an odd twist of fate, she suspects Jonathan might be the most genuinely _himself_ of all of them. 

Jonathan doesn’t look up as he says, “I s’pose so. As Alfie’s been reminding me, I have rather a lot of time to make up for.” He looks up, a piece of carrot speared on the tip of his fork. “Why, are you inviting me to the Institute? Terribly transparent for a trap, isn’t it?”

From her angle, Clary sees Adrien nudge him with a knee, giving him a pointed look. 

Jace just smirks, leaning back. “I was more asking to see if we needed to watch for any more murders.”

“Think we’re done with those,” Rhiannon says from beside Jonathan, mouth full. 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Alfie reminds her, expression serious. Rhiannon swallows, grimacing in apology. 

“Right you are, _cuishle,_ I’m sorry.” She twirls some pasta onto a fork, saying, “As far as we know, now that we’ve taken out the top, they should fragment into unimportant sects. Might get absorbed into other things, but whatever. Not our problem anymore.” 

Jonathan’s expression shutters. Clary’s eyes narrow. There’s something he isn’t telling them; there are probably a _lot_ of things he isn’t telling them. Simon nudges her with an elbow. _Stop glaring at him,_ he mouths. She shoots him a look that says, _I’m not glaring at him!_ He gives her an unconvinced look. 

She turns her attention back to the conversation, where Jonathan and Jace have somehow managed to start a heated debate about the Iliad. 

“—didn’t deserve to die! He just wanted to avenge his boyfriend!” Jace argues. 

Jonathan sets his fork down, expression intent. “Right, yes, but he wasn’t happy in the end, anyways. He didn’t particularly care what happened to him in the end, and he became a wrathful monster for it. It might’ve been mercy to kill him.”

“Or it might’ve just been a dick move.”

“Not mutually exclusive, Jace.”

“How have you _not_ gotten pasta sauce everywhere?” Clary demands before Jace can retort. The area around Jonathan’s plate is shockingly clean; the rest of them have gotten sauce and pieces of vegetable everywhere, like normal people. 

Jonathan pauses midway through cutting a massive potato in half. He gives her an incredulous look. 

“Of all the things about me that were going to come under attack,” he says, “I really didn’t think my table manners were going to be one of them.”

Adrien gives a suspicious cough. 

Isabelle narrows her eyes at him. “No, she’s right, that’s unnatural. You’re wearing a white shirt. How are you not covered in pasta sauce?”

He sputters, looking between them with an expression that says, _what the actual hell._ Clary almost laughs at the indignation in his posture—back straight, chin tilted up defiantly. She does the same thing; it’s a little disconcerting to realize that. 

“Right,” Adrien says, breaking the silent stand-off. “Wine?”

And the rest of dinner goes without a hitch. 

“Are you really staying?” Alfie asks as Jonathan tucks him into bed that night. “For good?”

His heart skips a beat at the hesitance in Alfie’s voice, like he isn’t sure he wants to know the answer. Like he thinks Jonathan might actually leave again. 

“For good,” he promises. “I shouldn’t have left before, either.” He kneels on the ground so they’re eye to eye, taking Alfie’s hands. “I shouldn’t have left all of you here without any warning. That was wrong of me.” 

He squeezes Alfie’s hand, silently begging the kid to believe him. He remembers when Alfie first came to them, the way they’d earned his trust piece by piece, slowly and gradually. He wonders how much of it he’s lost by vanishing, and his heart squeezes painfully. _What if he never forgives me?_ he suddenly thinks, terror slamming through him.

Alfie watches him with a steady gaze, as if weighing his words. Jonathan holds his breath. Finally, Alfie sighs, snuggling down into the covers. 

“If you let me sleep over at Sander’s again, I’ll forgive you.”

A relieved smile breaks over Jonathan’s face. “Deal. Still not on a school night, though.”

“I know.” Alfie stretches, yawning. A wave of affection sweeps through Jonathan, threatening to bowl him over. Jonathan goes to stand to shut off his lamp, but Alfie stops him with a tug on his hand. “Jonathan?”

“Yes?”

Alfie looks up at him with sleepy blue eyes. “You know we love you, right? Me and Rhi and Adrien.”

Jonathan’s breath stalls in his chest, and he blinks rapidly. “I know, love.” He leans over, kissing him on the forehead. “I love you, too. Very much." He stands before he can start crying, flipping off the lamp. “Get some sleep. You’ve got school tomorrow.”

“G’night, Jonathan.”

Jonathan pauses at Alfie’s door, knocking twice on the doorframe. “Goodnight, Alfie.”

Adrien’s already in bed when Jonathan walks into their bedroom for the first time in almost two months. He’s got a book open on his lap, something about the development of empires in the ancient world. Sounds fascinating, actually. Jonathan might have to steal it when he’s done. 

He looks up as Jonathan strips, grabbing his pyjamas. His eyes linger on the bandage, lips flattening. 

“I still can’t believe I didn’t find the rune,” he says in French as Jonathan climbs into bed. They always speak in French to each other, and the language settles into Jonathan’s bones, soothing. 

Jonathan shrugs. “I thought Rhi would. I didn’t expect you to, honestly. I figured if you were the one who found it, you’d have charged ahead full steam without considering how dangerous it might be.”

“And Rhi wouldn’t have?” 

Jonathan pauses in getting himself comfortable. “Yeah, that’s true.”

Adrien huffs, shaking his head. “For someone who overthinks everything, you didn’t think that through very well, did you?”

“Hey, cut me some slack! I’m injured!”

“You weren’t injured when you came up with that plan.”

“I—” He breaks off, lifting Adrien’s arm so he could tuck himself into Adrien’s side. “I was injured in my heart.”

Adrien snorts, pulling him close. His fingers trace the skin beneath the bandage, light and feather-soft. Jonathan shivers, pressing closer. 

“I really missed you,” he mumbles against Adrien’s skin. He still smells like bergamot and citrus. 

Adrien kisses him on the cheek, smiling. “I missed you, too, _mon renard.”_

They slip into comfortable silence, broken only by Adrien flipping pages once in a while. It’s so impossibly peaceful after the last few weeks he’s had; he has to keep reminding himself that this isn’t a dream, this isn’t a hallucination, this isn’t going to vanish if he moves too quickly. The pain is over; the fear is over. 

He wonders if the fear will ever leave him or if, like the darkness, it only waits for a chance to resurface.

“What are you thinking?” Adrien asks in a low voice, closing his book. 

“That I reckon I owe my mother a visit,” Jonathan says, pushing his misgivings aside. “I don’t think I’d stay there, but it’s bad form not to see her, isn’t it? Maybe we’ll go over Alfie’s spring break, make a holiday of it.” 

Adrien’s lips twitch. “You could always fake your death. Or just disappear again.” 

“You’d let me?” 

Adrien settles back against the pillows, eyes never leaving Jonathan’s face. Like he’s memorizing every bit of Jonathan lest he vanish from sight, like the ghost Rhi joked he is. Jonathan gives his hand a squeeze, trying to reassure him that he was here. For good, this time. No more running.

“I’d let you go anywhere as long as you took me with you.” 

An involuntary smile spread over Jonathan’s face. “Is that your way of saying you’ll follow me to the ends of the earth?” 

Adrien leans forwards, suddenly serious. “I told you. For as long as you want me, you will have me.” 

“Even if the faeries try their hand at kidnapping me next?” 

Adrien’s forehead creases. “Why would the faeries want to kidnap you?” 

Jonathan pushes the memory aside. A problem for a different day, then. Possibly a different year. 

“Never mind.”

Adrien opens his mouth to push before thinking better of it. He wraps his other arm around Jonathan, hand rubbing his arm. His eyes are thoughtful, but there’s a hint of worry in them. 

“You have a sister now.”

“I do.” He thinks of Clary saying, _I’m gonna hug you now._ Thinks of the teasing that had come far more easily to him than he’d expected. Then again, he supposes Rhi’s a bit like a sister. “It’s weird.”

Adrien doesn’t smile, just keeps looking at him with that odd hesitance. His voice is carefully neutral as he says, “And you have a family.”

He sits up, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. “What are you saying?” His shoulders are tense. Adrien’s arms have fallen away, leaving him cold. “Are you—do you not want me here anymore? I don’t—Adrien, I won’t leave again, I promise—”

“Of course I want you here!” Adrien looks horrified. “I just thought—” He pauses, biting his lip. He traces circles on Jonathan’s hand. “I thought, maybe, now that you have a family and people who know you, maybe you wouldn’t want me anymore,” he confesses, voice fragile. 

Jonathan stares at him, speechless. 

“Not right?” Adrien asks, smiling weakly.

Jonathan grabs a pillow, not caring that it pulls at his injuries, and smacks Adrien in the chest. Adrien gives a soft _oof,_ back arching to absorb the blow.

“Adrien—” another whack— “Fauré—” another whack— “you absolute fucking idiot—” a whack to punctuate each word, and Adrien starts shaking with laughter— “of _course_ I want you, you absolute shitweasel, _I love you,_ for fuck’s sake, _je t’adore,_ you thoughtful beautiful brilliant man, goddammit—”

“Alright alright stop hitting me!” Adrien manages, wheezing with laughter. Jonathan sets the pillows down, breathing hard. Adrien’s eyes sparkle, expression sweet and hopeful. “You really want to stay here?”

“You fool,” Jonathan says affectionately, slightly exasperated, “of _course_ I want to stay here. Those people, the ones who’ve invaded our house, they _knew_ me, past tense. They knew me at my worst, and I don’t think they quite know what to do with me now. You know me _now,_ you and Alfie and Rhi. And—” he raises his voice when Adrien makes to interrupt— “ _and,_ you’re my family, not them. Not my mother, not even my sister. I _chose you,_ Adrien. And I would again. And I _am_ choosing you again. So don’t _ever_ suggest that I would choose them over you, that I would leave you for them, because I would sacrifice them all in a heartbeat if it meant staying with you. I don’t know them. I don’t love them.”

Adrien stares at him, wide-eyed. He blinks slowly, like he can’t quite believe what just happened. Jonathan sits back, letting him process his speech. Rather gracious of him, if he does say so himself. 

“I can’t decide,” Adrien says finally, “if I want to wrap you in blankets and never let you go, or ravish you until you can’t remember your own name.”

Jonathan laughs, shocked. “Maybe save the ravishing for when I’m not wrapped in bandages.”

Adrien gives him a sheepish smile. “Yes. True. Very true. I’m—Can I kiss you now?”

“You’d fucking better.”

Adrien’s smile is like starlight, like sparklers, like a fire on a cold night. Jonathan’s smiling as Adrien leans in. His lips are soft, familiar; he tastes like the red wine they had at dinner. Jonathan makes a small noise as his lips part, reaching out to latch onto Adrien’s shirt. 

Adrien presses closer, shifting so he’s on top of Jonathan. His elbows hold most of his weight off of Jonathan as he shifts between Jonathan’s legs. The kisses are slow, languid, deep. Jonathan can’t get enough. He wraps his arms around Adrien’s neck, burying one hand in his hair. 

“I’m never leaving you again,” he whispers, breathless, as Adrien moves down to kiss his neck. “Fuck it, you’re never getting rid of me. You’re stuck with me for life.”

Adrien chuckles, chest rumbling against Jonathan’s. “That’s the idea, _mon courage._ ” He pulls back to look up at Jonathan with an adoring expression. Jonathan’s chest fills with an almost-pain, a desperate love for the man in his arms and the life they have and everything he got so close to losing. “That’s the idea,’ Adrien repeats, murmuring it against his skin. 

_“Je t’adore,”_ Jonathan says again as Adrien rises back up to claim his lips. “Adrien, _je t'adorerai toujours."_

As Adrien kisses him breathless, Amsterdam falls asleep. The streetlights, golden and jolly, light the city as the first snowfall of the year begins, snow drifting down like fallen stars. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! That's the end. We made it. Thank you so much to anyone who stuck with the story; it means a lot to me. 
> 
> I might write some one-shots for this universe, mostly because Adrien left behind a bunch of friends without giving them a ton of reasons for why and they should really get some closure for that. Not to mention there are still a lot of people in New York, especially Jocelyn, that Jonathan should probably talk to. Figure things out. Anyways, let me know if you'd be interested in reading that.
> 
> Massive thanks again to anyone who made it here! Come say hi on [tumblr](https://aceass1n.tumblr.com/), or leave me a comment.


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